Angst, Vintage Style

There was something I was supposed to do.

There was something I was supposed to do, and then I forgot. But that didn't change the fact that it was something I was supposed to be doing, something I was supposed to have already done, and now it's not happening, because I forgot about it and can't remember it and now there's nothing left to do but move on.

I have about a month left to teen-angst at the world. Following that, I expect my main emotional occupation will become angsting over the fact that my angst no longer qualifies as teen-angst.

My poor angst. It will feel devalued and misrepresented. Woe, more woe, and thrice woe. My angst has aged and resents the label of decrepit. It is bitter that the world passes it by so cruelly, leaving it with nothing but its potency and ignominy. Time is cruel. My angst rends its grey hair of self-obsession at the roots and bemoans the youth of today. It distrusts technology and refuses to get a hearing aid.

My angst eyes the label of Forced Retirement warily and procures the status of More Annoying Than Ever, with a special commendation regarding its skill in Complaining Persistently. My angst requests a discount on public transport so that it can get about more thoroughly and interfere more completely. It dismisses the criticism that it skipped past the Bridget Jones epoch and Mid-life Crisis epoch without a second thought.

Purple spiky zimmer-frames, says narrauko.

I still don't own a functioning computer, but I am becoming increasingly proficient at improvising.

I acquired a job at some point in the rather recent past. I don't think it was really that long ago, but somehow I have managed to become the longest standing member of the week-day staff, ie, the longest-standing member of staff that isn't still at school.

Go on. Ask me how much a brie and bacon sandwich is. Thrice times three lots of woe.