Every morning as I leave for work my car is covered in bird shit.
I wipe the freshly laid speckles of turd from my car with baby wipes.
I used to wash my car.
But I think what’s the point. When every morning it’ll be covered in shite again.
As I go to get into my car. I hear a chirp.
I look up.
And on the roof. There’s a black bird that chirps in a sadistic way. Tormenting me.
I swear I see it smirk.
I know and the bird knows. There will be fresh shite again on my car in the morning.
Watching a homeless guy in town today who had not one care in the world.
An elated grin on his face as he smoked his cig.
He was free. Free from the mundane grind which awaits the wage slaves.
We were having drinks.
As the whisky flowed we’d waffle on.
The more intoxicated we became the conversation turned philosophical.
She asked me “What are you most proud of?”
I was stunned.
I had nothing.
Of course the birth of my daughter.
But I had nothing.
Perhaps being a full-time slacker?
Bear Grylls had climbed Mount Everest at 20 something.
At 30 I had achieved zilch, diddly squat, jack effin’shit.
I couldn’t drive.
Still working the same old job, which I resented.
Just your everyday plodder.
Realisation is a bitch.
It was my life.
I was wasting it by the second and only I could do anything about it.
Within a month I passed my driving test.
Quit my job, made sure I had a new one lined up first – priorities.
Became more of an attentive father.
Learning whatever I wanted to now became an obsession.
I want the most out of my life.
That’s what the “meaning of life” is to me – I’m all in, and I’m going to experience the fucking lot.