Much like Natalie Imbruglia, I’m torn. Now I know what your thinking, “Oh Karl. What is it that your unsure about?” Oh, that’s not what concerns you? Your actually wondering why I’d use such an incredibly antiquated 90’s reference with no validity in today’s society as an overture for this article?! Well I’m tired, I’ve been accosted by persistent headache and in my state of mental fragility I couldn’t think of a formal way of beginning a sentence without bashing my head repeatedly on the keyboard. Oh and I am torn. Nearly 2 years ago I was released from the bonds of submission associated with living my mother. Being freed from perpetual ordinance of parental governance evokes sensations of liberation and well, freedom from parental compliance. It was with concerted and exemplary accord that I bid farewell to adolescent comfort, by which I mean brandishing two middle fingers to my now former disruptive neighbours, and set up a new base of gaming operation in the spare room of my new home. My endeavours since have unsurprisingly been more inert when polarised with my previous accommodations, as you inherit the responsibilities that I generally relinquished to my more than capable mother. As such, much of my gaming has been reduced to spurious interactions, ordinarily after dark.
You incur such active routines during the day, so the coveted seclusion of gaming has become my knightly ritual, sheathed in the nocturnal remission of the dark, bathed in the effervescent glow of my 42 inch television. Of course my other half is reclined in docile repose in the adjoining room, so discretion is a necessity for her recuperation as well as for the security of my testicles if she wakes. But the muted levity of victory, accented by the banality of the reticent surroundings bestow little joviality, other than ruminant visions of my younger gaming ambitions without the strictures of maturity. I used to stay up late on school nights, careful not to wake my parents and with undulating caution slither down stairs and have cursory games on Super Mario World. The encroaching danger of being caught was pulsating, every jump I invoked on Mario was coerced by skill and arrested by impending capture. Now I’m slinking into the bedroom with furtive mobility, trying to adjust to the encumbrance of ambient sterility. Phone guiding my provisional steps to my side of the bed, negotiating the treacherous lesions of discarded garments affixed to the floor in miscellaneous disbursement, turning my nightly approach to bed into an Indiana Jones parody. Admonishing my own lethargy as I once again step blindly onto the loose floorboard and grimacing at the reverberating reproach of the bed springs, bellowing with discourse as I recline with a tempered slump.
So why am I torn? Well the reserve space where I conduct my ritualistic gaming at select intervals, night-time, is my only refuge from the barrage of Soap opera’s and reality programming my Girlfriend insists on watching, which is fine. I have an earnest refusal to substitute valuable gaming time for cloying TV shows to which she is sympathetic. Crucially this proclivity for crap Television comes courtesy of me procuring temporary accommodation for the vacant room to which I currently conduct my recreational activities. A fair exchange I’ll think you’ll agree and one that we have been suitably compliant with. Honestly, when you’ve been with someone for an extended period of time, you find that you’ll negotiate truces for almost everything! But there is a clause in this verbally binding contract, and my remedial repression could soon be revoked by this oversight. You see this space is only available on a temporary basis, until the secondary living space can be permanently occupied, if you get my meaning, hint, hint. The house is after all a 2 bedroom and we have mutually agreed to actively expand the number of residents living here, nudge nudge. And though there is no pending announcement, I’ve got to admit that I’m terrified! Now I don’t mean the typical fear of fatherhood or the nuances attributed to becoming a parent. It’s not even the fear of our offspring inheriting my bulbous snout that some people refer to as a nose, though I’ll profess that is a concern. No, my anxiety is of a much more selfish root. That “my” dominion, “my” respite that is confined to the verges of those 4 walls could soon be occupied by a little ball of poop and vomit! The very notion that I am only permitted to utilise this invaluable space on an interim basis, until permanent residence is established in the form of the bespoke vaginal secretion is shocking! (I should probably work on establishing a less divisive bond with my, at present, metaphorical prodigy).
In recent discussions I have also been prohibited from securing our bedroom as an alternate utility for my gaming habitation and severely reprimanded for my suggestion that the bathroom would provide adequate scope. It seemed like the logical choice to me: gaming and bowel movements combined! Would have worked wonders if I were playing Outlast or Alien: Isolation. The shed could be a viable means if I can fix the inherent logistical encumbrances, but I guess all things must come to a dignified and appropriate end. Such is life………..stupid life, I hate you!……..Hmm? I guess there’s always the cupboard. Woman don’t need shoes right?