Future

When we were 18 me and the boys went to Schoolies Week. We had t-shirts printed up that said 'SECURITY' and spent the rest of the week walking around looking unconvincing. Good times.

Months later I was hanging-out with a girl I was sleeping with - I happened to be wearing the t-shirt. 'Hmph! Security?!' she scoffed, 'you might as well be wearing a t-shirt that says 'COMMITMENT'!' Much has changed since then. For one that girl learnt to keep her smart mouth shut. To this day no one has found the body.

In all honesty not that much has changed. For a second there I had a little crisis and thought I'd better start looking to settle down. But that passed like a nation at a Republic referendum - hastily, without thought or discussion. No, no. Think of the future? That's not for me. That should be left for paranoid schizophrenics, over-bearing parents and paleontologists.

The only time I ever considered a 5 year plan, I'd been arrested for possession with intent to traffic. Luckily, when I got to court, the judge kept calling me Chuck, gave me a balloon and sent me down the shops for cigarettes... and they say the system doesn't work.

I bring this up because for the first time (this month) I'm wondering exactly what the future will bring. Will I really send my kids to school on jetpacks? Will DVD give way to 'BrainFilms' administered directly into the eye with a paintball gun? Will religious tensions bring down society like an epileptic fitting at a game of Pick Up Sticks?

If I come back here next year (as it appears I may) will it mean that I'll be celebrating my 25th birthday while on a return visit to my parents house? Living with my parents at 25?! Isn't that like a litmus test for serial killers, paedophiles and bloggers? I'm not that guy, am I?

My name is Ryan Coffey. My hobbies include sitting around in my undies, eating a sandwich. (I was going to say 'eating a sandwich in my undies' but that conjures pictures. Hairy, salty pictures.) Usually I sleep with just a sheet over me, but sometimes I like to use a blanket, but leave the fan on low. I use mouthwash even though I don't like the taste. One time, on the weekend, I got a call from a market researcher and I happily provided her all the information she required.

What a confession. I feel like I should present myself to a police station for chemical castration. Or just whack one of my nuts flat on the counter with a rolling pin. Just one. I want the other one to watch - make him squirm for a while, eventually he'll talk. Then I'd have a talking nut. That'd be something, wouldn't it? Alas, my gormless existence.

Don't fret for me. This listlessness will pass, like my future so far has already. I guess I just wish I had married that girl when I was 18. She was funny. I like that. There's no laughing about a smashed nut.