LIFE ON THE SCRAPHEAP 2019 (4)

TUESDAY 26TH NOVEMBER 2019

Station run tales: The embarrassment of trying to open the door of the wrong car; the blindingness of oncoming full-beam headlamps; a street-cleaning truck speeds along not cleaning the street; the red light is not red enough to stop the car in front of me from going through.

Station run tales: The yellow school bus waits brightly for its bright cargo; the dark starkness of a bare tree against the soft low grey glow of dawn; I forget to switch my Sherlock Holmes CD back on for the return journey.

Despite deciding yesterday that I should probably give myself a proper rest and not attempt any of my nonsensical projects for a while and try to just relax instead, after I have done the run to the station, I find myself drawing an Ogron-related Christmas Card idea and then I go upstairs to the computer and colour it up and add the (possibly) amusing text.

Well, I think it's funny anyway.

This does, at least go far more successfully than the efforts of yesterday, and so my mood remains relatively upbeat as I set about catching up with another little project I wanted to start working on regularly, namely this very LIFE ON THE SCRAPHEAP blog.

I write a couple of posts, but am alarmed at how much of the specific information has already slipped away in just a fortnight of not being able to properly concentrate. Nevertheless, I am determined to carry on with this for reasons of maintaining my sanity if nothing else.

The day had begun with another exchange of supportive messages from my friend Rick who emigrated with his family to Canada several years ago now and has endured a rough time of it. If he can survive that, I surmise, my own situation should be comparatively bearable. He'd been very kind about my podcasting contributions and so I tried to link him up with my friends at ROUND THE ARCHIVES HQ so that he could say kind things to them directly.

They had suggested that he might wish to contribute to our wacky world, but it's all baby steps really.

I then decided to mess around with trying to teach myself how to edit audio, and spent a happy couple of hours recording some nonsense and trimming and editing it, and was so pleased that it wasn't utterly dreadful that I sent it off to RTA HQ, and, as ever, they were terribly kind in another exchange of messages.

This is the stuff that's keeping me going.

So far.

A visit to the supermarket proves alarmingly expensive as I overspend, and then an evening meal with my Beloved's family involves me chatting telly (the alarming new "A Christmas Carol" trailer, and the effectiveness of the impressive stillness of actors like Joan Hickson, a conversation that included references to the TV series "Strange" and Michael Caine's acting masterclass of years ago.


WEDNESDAY 27TH NOVEMBER 2019

Station run tales:

After yesterday’s sudden deluge, I wisely sport a cap; The chat moves inexorably to Christmas; A dog wears a fluorescent coat, the black-clad walker is less visible; The orange & white street lights remind me of fried eggs; A neighbour is putting out bird food.

I've started Tweeting the "Station run tales" because it forces me to think of things to say about my otherwise identical daily journeys. Work the mind, and so forth, and stop it from turning to mush. If I don't try something like this, I fear, the days will very quickly merge into one and I will start vegging out on the couch with little to differentiate things.

Returning home, I am brim full of ideas for a possible podcast and I head upstairs to attempt to build an intro to a Pilot episode and this takes ages, isn't terribly successful, and ultimately finds me then unable to string sentences together once I start to attempt the actual recording of real words.

Hopefully this will pass when I relax more.

Later that day, the payoff appears in my bank account.

"There you go" I think "that's what I was worth..."

And I find that, perhaps surprisingly, all rather depressing.

THURSDAY 28TH NOVEMBER 2019

The day starts with a poem:

UNRAVELLING Unravelling A human ball of string Leaving a trail in tow Of the pieces of you Wherever you go Hoping to find A way back To the beginning

MAWH, 281119

...although, sometimes, a poem is just a poem.

Station run tales: A grim, dark morning made grimmer & darker by being moonless; A bin lorry convoy makes a short parade; The exceedingly rash overtakers seem oblivious to standing water & fog; The car park seems uncharacteristically rammed; I choose the “safer” route home.

I spend much of the day (as an exercise) recording and editing my thoughts upon recent events as a possible podcast. Exciting emails featuring other people's far more exciting podcast contributions find me suddenly realising how dull this is, but I persist. Meanwhile, more podcastery is scheduled for tomorrow.

I knock off late afternoon because we're heading out for an evening out booked before things turned out the way they turned out.

LATE NIGHT TRUDGES

Late night trudges

Back to the outlands

After an evening of pizza 

And theatre in cinema

Arranged before my fall

The chill of night
Enlightened by sounds
Of faraway test matches
And clear bright night stars
Visible to one and all

But I’m still getting up

Unreasonably early 

To deliver icily 

To their daily transport 

Those who can still walk tall

MAWH, 291119

One of my former colleague has responded to my earlier poem and sounds in a bit of a state... I (eventually, because this happened when I was out) offer to arrange a natter - after all, only we three fully understand what we went through.

FRIDAY 29TH NOVEMBER 2019

Station run tales: The splendour of the city’s sparkling lights in the dark make last night’s drive a mere footstep; bright danger of ice on grass & windscreens & road surfaces; a row of cones reflect; a yellow school bus negotiates a tricky turn; I drive towards a colourful dawn

I return home to do the usual round of morning scribbles, TwitWorld distractions, coffee, and to write as I realise I've been neglecting this blog for the past couple of days.

I then set up my "home studio" (i.e. I plug in the borrowed laptop I use for Skype calls to charge and set up the microphones) in preparation for the afternoon's online chatter.

The "interview" we record is an excellent experience in itself, and, after the thirty-six minutes of our fifteen minute natter, we burble on unrecorded for almost a further hour, which just proves (to me at least), that in the right company, I can be perfectly relaxed and unintimidated.

LIFE ON THE SCRAPHEAP 2019 (3)

WEDNESDAY 20TH NOVEMBER 2019

My first day in thirty-two years of not actually earning a salary. This troubles me somewhat, but I am mostly alone in my own company to think about this, and whilst I do make a few tenuous steps towards doing some things, eventually I do have to go out for a while, which breaks up the day.

THURSDAY 21ST NOVEMBER 2019

Under the theory of trying to keep busy, I spend the morning working up some artwork as a favour to the extended family which was requested some time before the chaos of imminent redundancy hit me.

I manage to produce "something" but I'm less than encouraged at my first efforts at producing some actual Graphic Design in a while, and my confidence begins to crumble, even as the transfer of telephone numbers to an older telephone does at least bring a modicum of success to my day.

But at leat IO do phone the C.A.B. even though it's likely to be a while before I act upon their advice.

FRIDAY 22ND NOVEMBER 2019

I decide to spend much of my day playing with some animation software for an idea I have had brewing for a while and, once I upload it, it does appear to be well-received.

I also send a few emails to people I've been meaning to get in touch with to let them know the current situation. One is to thank our former landlords at the office for all their kindliness over the years because I never got the chance to go and say goodbye.

That probably seems an odd thing to do, but there you go.

SATURDAY 23RD NOVEMBER 2019

There is work to be done around the house, but both our moods plummet during the afternoon as we struggle to engage with our telly choices.

It is not a good day.

SUNDAY 24TH NOVEMBER 2019

After a bad night, I wake up to find more cricketing disasters have occurred (from an England and Wales point of view anyway) and work my way through a couple of long podcasts which have just been published. Sadly, these only serve to trigger an unfortunate sense of despair at my own lack of abilities, and I start to crumble so much that I decide that I have to walk away from Social Media for a time.

In announcing this, of course, I find that my online circle of people are very kind and supportive in the things that they say which I find in my timeline when I pop back to post a quick "angry doodle" that was prompted by the launch of the Tory Manifesto today.

My mood is generally not being helped by knowing that there are probably still enough people out there who still believe that this contemptible oaf is God's gift to get him re-elected, and this is one of the reasons I'm finding it more and more of a daily struggle to face the day.

The mood brightens slightly as I spend the afternoon cooking; firstly I make a beef stew from bits and pieces in the fridge (having skipped a Sunday supermarket run for once), and then I act as sous-chef to my Beloved as she works on the annual Christmas cake bake.

MONDAY 25TH NOVEMBER 2019

Station run tales:

The coffee seller seems to be well again; Two spectre-like eyes punctuate the grey of the dawn sky; A brace of foxes dash from a garden and then go in the one next door; A silver BMW near misses me after he decides that Stop signs don’t refer to him.

...oh, and the thing I thought was a nasty right-wing election flyer that had been left under a stone on the doorstep on Friday evening turned out to be a nasty right-wing election flyer - which is now sitting damply in the recycling bin.

A month to Christmas and I am feeling very down, though not because of that. Instead of trying to spend some time relaxing, I rather stupidly set about doing another animation project, but my brain seems to be full of mush today, despite the kind overnight reply to one of my emails, which prompts a short flurry of activity via Messenger, mostly, but my failures with the animations make me feel rather bleak.

In the afternoon, I decide to attempt another project instead and start to mess around with Book Templates which frustrate me so much that I genuinely start to believe that I can't do anything, and I'm astonished at just how quickly the confidence in yourself evaporates.

Just to prove no good turn goes unpunished, because they have my contact details, I get a message from the former office landlords asking what happened to our keys - the ones we handed over during our TERMINATION meetings.

I respond, once again reminded of the arrogance of the company that got rid of me, but it is an excuse, at least, to exchange messages with my former art department colleagues and prove that my old phone number is active again.

Sadly, this leads to several hours of me grumpily failing to get iMessage to work on my relic of a phone, so I'm three for three on the abject failure scoreboard for the day, and all the kind messages in the world (one of my old podcast efforts getting considerable praise) fail to offset my sense of utter, abject, miserable failure today.

I watched the last two episodes of Van der Valk, too.

LIFE ON THE SCRAPHEAP 2019 (2)

FRIDAY 8TH NOVEMBER 2019

We get an email which, after a little bit of jiggery-pokery with an attachment, reveals a list of "available jobs" within the remnants of the group, all of which are either not art-related, or will require selling up and moving to far-flung places in order (most probably) to get kicked to the kerb anyway after a few months, and  suffering the (perhaps minor) humiliation of returning to a junior position after gaining (in my case) thirty-two years of experience.

WEDNESDAY 13TH NOVEMBER 2019

I take a roundabout route to the office via IKEA, failing to find the shelves we failed to find there the previous Saturday. Bedroom rearrangement plans remain on hold until I can find the shelves we want, but at least getting out and about filled some of a troubled weekend, as did several days of digging into my DVD collection. The diversion leads to me getting fretful as - despite leaving home stupidly early - the route from IKEA to the office is plagued with delays, and I suddenly start to worry that I will be late for my "Consultation Meeting" appointment at High Noon. The plus side, however, is that for the first time, I approach the office from a completely new direction, which adds some variety at least.

One of my colleagues is already indoors waiting for her own 11:30, and the Axe-Wielders are already in place upstairs and (possibly) already in conference with our former managers - although we later suspect that the shadowy shapes were just misinterpreted.

Her 11:30 comes and I am alone with a notebook. It doesn't take long and, as I'm already there, High Noon comes early.

As with my colleague there is little to say. I have no suggestions as to how the business might have been saved (I wasn't running it) and, as expected, none of the vacancies I am deemed suitable for. I ask a few questions about possibly salvaging some of the assets for my own use, and head downstairs, chatting to Carl - one of the former building managers - as I go.

He agrees the world seems bleak.

The programmer and our other artwork colleague both arrive presently and head off for their own meetings, whilst the two of us go over to the local cafe and buy lunch at the sort of daily rates that explain just why I took sandwiches for all those years.

Presently, we are joined by our other colleague, and time passes in doom-laden conversation  until we drift away, and I take an hour out of my afternoon to visit the country park because, well, I can.

THURSDAY 14TH - MONDAY 18TH NOVEMBER 2019

Days pass. Flaps about questions not asked by my colleagues, angry exchanges of iMessages, and other distractions fill the time, but I remain gloomy. A friend invites me out for a walk on the Friday which is nice and supportive, but my hopes remain low, even if, every now and again, I start to believe that perhaps I could make a living of sorts doing the things I enjoy doing "for fun" at the moment.

TUESDAY 19TH NOVEMBER 2019

The Axe Falls.

A day earlier than expected when "The Announcement" happened, but it seems not in order to save them a day's salary.

I arrive stupidly early to the empty office and am able to clean mountains of forgotten rubbish from my desk and place it in the bin bag I brought along especially, which I hand to the office cleaner as we chat about what the fates have brought me.

The meeting is mercifully swift, and my keys and phone are handed over, money is discussed, and it's all over bar having to pop back to tell them my other colleague has already arrived, and a couple of further questions that struck me when I got downstairs - chiefly about the shredding of the documents piled on my desk.

The three members of the (now former) art department then cross the road to buy coffees, chat about life, the universe and everything, and promise to stay in touch, before heading our separate ways with an air of bleak finality.

LIFE ON THE SCRAPHEAP 2019 (1)

I started the "Life on the Scrapheap" blog a few years ago, the last time it looked as if things were about to go belly up in the less than great story of my life.

That time, of course, things sort of sorted themselves out and, after re-applying for our own jobs in 2016, we were employed by the parent company that had just pulled the plug on our bosses efforts to survive in the (once) independent sector, but decided that the artwork team made a tangible asset.

Ten months later, without any real consultation, they bundled us up as part of a package with a new venture run by some other waifs and strays from the industry and formed a not entirely happy marriage which staggered along for about two and a half years.

I can't say it was the best of situations and we laughed and joked a little about the fact that the plug was always likely to be pulled, because it's alright to laugh and joke about such matters until the plug actually gets pulled.

Then, of course, it's all a different matter and, despite everything, few of us learn the meaning of the old adage: Be careful what you wish for.

THURSDAY OCTOBER 3rd 2019

The (extended) "forty day" consultation period is over and the entire office are in to gather round a laptop and listen to a fifteen minute presentation by the head honcho of our new American parent company. To all intents and purposes, our "brand" is dead. Our leaders convince themselves that this is a good thing, as our product is "so good" that they want to put their name on it. Cynics that we are, the Art Department, three people who have been through thick and thin, but work well together in a way I doubt I'll ever find again, are less certain.

October passes.

WEDNESDAY 6TH NOVEMBER, 2019

Despite morning trepidation (and a slight migraine), for once the entire office is present. A rare occurrence, but the "money man" we'd heard through the grapevine had resigned is due to visit. Despite our liaison with the parent company having been mysteriously unavailable through "illness" (he's NEVER ill) throughout much of the past three months, things remain upbeat as I am praised about the latest project I've been working on. Our leaders seem optimistic, although mention of a HR representative known to us drifts through the door and some of us suspect things are afoot.

However, the visitors arrive, including a different HR representative than the expected one. They refuse a friendly cup of coffee, and immediately whisk our managers/owners upstairs to a meeting room. Minutes later they enter through the connecting door and the plug is indeed pulled as £10m in savings need to be made.

They disappear and even our usually overconfident management team seem shell-shocked. My immediate colleagues, especially. One has the air of having been hit by a truck (as sole breadwinner with a family and a sick wife - now in tears apparently - this is not a good day), and the other, despite many claims of wanting this to be over, seems to be surprised that it's suddenly all over.

Slightly later, the axe-wielding bean-counters return, asking whether we have other questions, and giving out contacts that seem to forget that our phone contacts and computer equipment are all things that come with the job.

They depart. My manager suggests we take our computers - I've already wiped mine clean of "my" stuff - home and that they might be something we can negotiate over in our redundancy packages. Already that word "redundant" is becoming the norm now.

Desks are cleared, and our three managers, or presumed managers, drift away, full of surprise, and promises, and the usual platitudes, but we fully expect that, other than passing through doorways on our way to meetings we never wanted to have, this may be the last we see of them.

I head home. A visit to family is more than I can face. Instead I watch a film, but find it hard to concentrate upon, before meeting my Beloved from the train and eating pizza.

Later on, of course, you realise you still know nothing at all about that tricky little thing of applying for new jobs and surviving in this terrible world we have now, but that's another story.

My internet pals are very supportive, if otherwise unable to assist.

My Beloved is, of course, a rock.

THURSDAY 7TH NOVEMBER 2019

After a night slightly broken by panic around 1:00am, I wake up for the first time in years at 5:45 instead of the recently normal 4:15. Am I finally more relaxed? Or simply exhausted and fatigued?

A day at home. Finding stuff to do, and ignoring the works equipment as best I can. I cancel a dental hygienist appointment for next week (it suddenly feels expensive) and sit down to write and watch TV in order to keep myself busy.

The work phone buzzes, and there is an exchange of emails (and phone calls) as the first "Consultation Day" is going to be next Wednesday.

I get High Noon.

LIFE ON THE SCRAPHEAP (PART TWO)

I'm a peculiar old soul.

After the potential hammer blow struck, that first night I actually slept rather (well, slightly) better than I had in a long time.

Perhaps fear is the key after all, and knowledge, however unpleasant, is far easier to deal with?

Anyhow, whatever it was, I found myself awake in the slightly less small hours of the morning and, as they often do, my anxieties took the form of haiku in order to get processed, so you can see exactly where my mind was the morning after...

A life torpedoed
The future's terrifying
Stares into abyss 

Wondering just how
Someone normally quite bright
Can feel so dim?

Suddenly the world
Seems terrifyingly big
And yet very small

Can't shake that feeling
That achieving a failure
Lets everyone down

Ought to go away
Whilst I'm simply processing -
Pay no attention

Later on that evening I was waxing almost poetical (Well, I find "waxing doggerelical" doesn't quite work as a phrase)...

I shall wallow for a while
For wallowing's what I do
And after a while of wallowing
I may well decide to stew

In response to the kindness of strangers (and certain people I've allowed to become strangers), who were nice enough to indulge my mad meanderings in a tolerant light, when I had chosen to share them in the great miasma.

The thing is that I've had this "Scrapheap" blog poised and ready to go for years, just in case... and it may yet turn out to be a very short-lived blog, or perhaps an epic... For the moment, despite the fact that the prospect has troubled me for years, that aspect remains unknown and I may receive valid accusations of falling into an overly melodramatic response.

Mind you, for several years now (on and off), I've used the strange realm that is blogging to - perhaps unwisely - to process my thinking upon all manner of things that have troubled me, so I don't suppose I should apologise for doing more of that here, although I suspect that doing so might not necessarily be the smartest way to deal with things at a time when keeping schtum might be the better approach.

At the moment I'm merely loitering in some kind of limbo and so, perhaps, that is where these thoughts ought to stay...

LIFE ON THE SCRAPHEAP (PART ONE)

It's peculiar, really.

I've had such a negative view on my prospects in life for so long now that, when the axe finally actually (sort of) fell, it didn't really come as any surprise, even though, when it did, it was, quite naturally, actually still one hell of a surprise.

Or is that shock?

My brain is so muddled by all of this that it's sometimes hard for me to tell what I mean any more, let alone explain it to anyone else.

Let's start at the beginning, shall we...?

Things have been a little quiet at work lately.

Too quiet you might think...

(I know I did)

But we had all continued to plod along regardless, assuming that this was just a "lull" and that things would "pick up" once the rumoured "five years since the takeover" negotiations had been completed.

Then, unexpectedly early one morning, m'coll turned up full of tales of faraway meetings that were imminent, and "announcements" that we weren't supposed to know about (but you know how the rumour mill grinds...) and how the likes of us were probably going to be all right, really, because we had a certain value, brand identity, and, you know (as my own thought-proceesses added to the crumbs of positive spin), office space with a longish contract signed...

Nevertheless, almost on cue, m'coll's telephone rings and, going by his responses ("Well, I was..." being an alarming retort to the presumed "Are you alright?") the general consensus was that we were, as the saying goes, well and truly, er, stuffed.

Anyway, once he had hung up, there was little time for discussion as m'other coll's phone then rang, and similar responses were at least muted to our ears by our own doomstruck mutterings between the one of us who was in the know, and myself, the person in the room who is seldom referred to as "The Blind Optimist..."

"Blind Artist" maybe...

As ever, my own sense of lack of self-worth had already convinced myself that they would probably turn out to be all right, but my own prospects were far, far gloomier.

M'other coll's call over, my own phone (Well, the one I have to use...) rang and, with that inevitable sick churning in the guts, I got my own version of the conversation that we each had, including the scripted little speech from HR over the phone (Me being last, well, I'm almost sure that there's nothing sinister in that. It was just alphabetical I presume...) and being told that things remained in a state of flux until we had our "one-on-one" conversations in eight days time; that there "may" be roles for us - remotely - in the brave new world; had it explained that if we accepted another offer (Hah! Fat chance!) in the meantime we would void our potential payouts; and some other stuff that I tried to take in, and then we were all left to wallow and ponder until we all decided that it was useless to sit there brooding and winding each other up, and so, eventually, we all packed up to continue our "work" at home.

My own imminent and long-booked fortnight's annual leave can't have helped my case, I imagined, but in having used it up, this would, of course, mean less actual cash for me to receive in whatever settlement I am left with (in the worst case scenario).

And, oh! What about all the unnecessary expense...? But you can't live your life not doing things on the off-chance that the worst might happen can you? Even if it eventually does, I've spent a heck of a lot of years doing that already and I'm no longer the spring chicken I once was, and regrets are one of the things that we all try not to mention...

And I tried to be pragmatic...

And I tried to remain stoic...

And I tried to be positive...

And I tried to remain upbeat...

And then, as I was heading homewards, I stopped at some traffic lights, and I saw all of these people walking around in the sunshine, all of whom seemed to have a place in the world, and a purpose, and, all of a sudden, I felt that I didn't really have that any more. For a moment I felt utterly overwhelmed with the urge to vomit, and found myself trying to hold back the inevitable wailing and tears of a panic attack, and, as I waited for the lights to change, I suddenly understood how ghastly my life could soon be getting...

Unless it doesn't.

Not that you'll be hearing much about it if the worst does happen; I suddenly realised that "my" phone and most of "my" computer equipment doesn't actually belong to me, which feels very strange and almost too personal a humiliation, and would also tend to make simple things like registering as unemployed or applying for jobs suddenly rather difficult, complicated, and, ultimately, expensive.

I ought not to panic, though; We're not exactly on our uppers. There is at least still A.N. Income coming into the house to cover the bills, and we do have some savings just as long as the economy doesn't find an imminent excuse to go into a tailspin...

Oh...

It's kind of stupid really; I've been sort of expecting this to happen to me for the whole of my professional life, which is one of the reasons that I've seldom dared to take many risks, and yet now that it is, possibly, happening, it's still managed to surprise and dumbfound me...

That day, the day after the anniversary of "D-Day" ironically, I suddenly felt very old, very useless, and very, very sorry for myself (See below).

"Tomorrow," I thought, "I shall quite possibly feel even worse...! But I suppose that we shall just have to wait for and see..."

One of the problems is that, at this moment, I just don't know what's going to happen, and am unlikely to know for quite some time yet, and so I fall into a kind of terrified limbo where I may, or may not, (Like "Schrödinger's Martin"???) have to do something astonishing about it, and all rather urgently, not that I feel that I know what, or even how, to make such things happen in this bewildering modern world at this precise moment.

You see, I am rather lucky in that I've never had to actually deal with anything like this before, and have always felt quite relieved that I haven't, although this does leave you rather ill-equipped to know quite what you ought to actually be doing as you stagger along though this particularly nasty bit of the veil of tears we try to call life.

I did rather go through hoops trying to persuade myself whether it was okay to tell people about this situation, and risk the condemnation and shame of being branded a "Loser". After all, once "The Announcement" is out in the world, the powers that be can hardly expect you not to want to talk about it, can they? Especially in this era that finds so many of us socially interacting all over the internet.

And nobody actually said to keep it a secret, even if, in the end, babbling on about how worried you feel might - but ought not to - affect your own destiny within the cruel,  heartless world of big business.

Anyway, the few people who exist in my tiny - and not especially usefully connected - orbit were very kind, and said very supportive things to me, despite me remaining determined to underscore what a hopeless Loser I always thought that I really was.

I also found that I was so very sleepy all of a sudden, too...

So...

How exactly does a rather antisocial near-as-dammit fifty-two-year-old who has only ever really done one thing go out into the world and make a living...? Especially when the only thing he really knows anything about is in a sector of the world of business that thrives upon youth and enthusiasm...?

This, I fear, is likely to become an increasing concern as the weeks pass...

Meanwhile, the first of July marks it being thirty years to the day since I left college for the final time, a day, incidentally, that I don't really think that I ever got over. Strangely, of course, the life that I was already mourning for on that day had already ceased to exist due to the fact that the people who made that time so very special had already faded away from it forever, too.

And, of course, that was also the last time that I got kicked blinking and hopelessly overwhelmed by the great big scary world outside my bubble, and that time it took me eighteen months to finally persuade somebody, at the third time of asking, that I might be worth taking a chance on. Back then, however, I could live at home with my remaining parent to vent at, whereas now I have responsibilities and commitments and all sorts of other things to get utterly terrified about buggering up.

I am not, it would seem, someone that is all easy to figure out, or like, despite the fact that I sometimes thing that I'm the simplest single-celled, spineless amoeba that there is, and do have a tendency to self-destruct at the first opportunity, especially in a situation where I have to talk about myself or, God help us, try to impress...

Honestly, inside my head, it feels like I'm wearing the Mark of Cain, or am suddenly so very toxic that people fear to come near me; "Typhoid Martin, the scummiest failure known to humanity be thy name, boy!!!" I hear them cry...

And, at this moment, I can hardly fail to agree...