The internal monologue of the ego: Part I.

Waking up in the morning 

‘There’s a lot I have to do… A lot… But no place to start. I mean, I could lie here and let things slip over my head and just ignore the fact that the societal pressures are crushing me and I’ll never be what I want to be, but that, that is just giving in. Do I want to give in? No. No, I don’t. I am still a little tired though, so give me a couple of… (47 minutes later) Fucking hell. Are you kidding me? Well, I suppose I just get up now and eat breakfast and then get back to my laptop and plan my future. I mean, if I had work I would be there already, making money and progress… But I wouldn’t have the same time to follow my creative pursuits… or sit on the toilet for forty five minutes and read the same article in The Age again and again. You can’t learn anything by reading it once, I say. I could get up, I could. Maybe I’m depressed. No, now you are inventing things in your head. You’ll get a lot more out of your day if you wake up and have a coffee. Not a coffee, caffeine will make you jittery. A cup of tea. Or a water. And a bowl of muesli. Then you can hit the day running. You’re better than just lazing in this bed feeling guilty about your actions. Fucking hell, just get up! Ooop, he’s rising! He’s rising! HE’S RISING!!! …. And he’s fallen back down. Mate. This is pathetic. You’ve got years to sleep when you are successful after chasing your monstrous and destructive dreams. You know these dreams are killing you. They’re killing me! I’m meant to be swaggering and swatting away contract offers and toothpaste commercials and you just continue to FUCKING lie there! Oh, sorry, lost in thought, he’s up. Good boy, good boy. I didn’t mean what I said. You are everything you ever dreamed of being and I’m proud of you. Oh fuck, no, not the fucking newspaper. Jesus Christ. Soul, could you pump me up? I’m severely deflated and I can’t stand to read another article about the UN being a toothless tiger seven times.’ 

When a friend calls you up to catch up for coffee 

‘Well of course he’s calling you, the man idolises you, he froths over your company. You teach him things he doesn’t know, and he’ll laugh at your jokes and everyone will be fucking happy. Isn’t it great when everyone is happy? Particularly you, my man. Particularly you. Pretend you have a full book of catch ups to deal with. You don’t want him knowing that you had only planned to hang out with your mother in Smith Street. That reminds me, we’ll have to tell Mum we are rescheduling. Yep, that’s pretty hardcore, she’ll be like ‘my son is an absolute chiller, hanging with his mates’. Very cool. Wait, no, that’s definitely not cool. Shit, I’m going into myself – give me a pump, give me a pump! Phew. Alright, we are back and we are getting COFFAYYYY with big Jonesy. Are you going to prepare conversation topics? No, yeah, true, it’s not a date, we can be cool, calm and collected. All good. I mean, we’re a chill guy. We don’t want to dress up too much though, that would also look a little too prepared. We just want to be cool. Yep, cool, calm and collected… cool, calm and collected. What does one order… sorry, going over stuff we’ve been through – my bad, my bad. A few pushups? Oh, yep, sorry, sorry, just a friend, not a romantic interest. Jesus Christ, Brainey, could you please just chill on the overthinking? You are sending me into overdrive and I can’t handle that forty-six times a day. Righto. Text Jonesy and tell him you are running twelve minutes late – that will come off as an interesting quirk of your personality.’

Job interview

‘Oh fuck. Oh fuck. Oh fuck. What are we interviewing for? A legal job? You are fucking kidding me. I mean, we have a law degree, but… do you really have any idea what we are up against? These people study. You just write stuff about EVERY OTHER TOPIC IMAGINABLE and then bullshit your way through the other important things. Important, man. You know, like the lectures you slept through, the tutorials you didn’t raise your voice in even though you were deeply troubled about the insensitivity of how criminal barristers deal with their clients behind their back. I know, it’s all work in the end, it’s all work in the end… Fuck that, no, no, you shouldn’t go through with this. They see through phonies, these people. Ah, good, you are wearing a suit. That looks nice. You look like you know what you are doing. Armpits? How’s he looking? Solid, very good. You know what, this is actually looking okay. Like you might actually fool th… Oh fuck, yep, that’s you, that’s you – respond idiot! Okay, walk through to the room and remain calm. Don’t say anything stup… FUCK, you weren’t supposed to say that – I’m your internal monologue you jackass! Back to cool, laugh it off, laugh it off… And yes, I am well, thank you very much – warm day, isn’t it!? Not too keen, man, not too keen!’

Later on…

‘My boy! MY BOYYYYYY! He’s killing it, he is killlllllling it! I loved the answer about why you want to go into commercial law – they totally bought it! That’s fucking brilliant! You are fucking brilliant! Just keep bluffing and laugh at their jokes – yesssss, that’s right, get it onto the topic of footy! This is good, you are good, we are unstoppable!! Wait… no. No. NO, NO, NO! Case law questions? In a job interview? This is absolute nonsense. Tell them this is nonsense! Mother… Alright, I’ll consult with the membrane – hold on. Bloody fucking… don’t pause too long, crack out something about how yo… no, don’t start yet! No! Oh dear… Oh, look at the way the interviewer’s face kind of dropped. And armpits! Get your shit together! Get it to together! Oh goddamn it. Oh goddamn it…’

At the gym

‘Mmmmmmmmhmmmmm, you are looking tidy my boy. Singlet on, shorts on, shoes… yep, shoes on. This is good, you are looking deeeeeeeeeee-licious. Good, show her your membership and scan through – crack a little joke about how long it has been. Ah, yeah, true, you were here yesterday – good point by her. But still…. A laugh. Maybe you should ask her out after your session – get a bit of pump into you – no, she’s talking to the other instructor and she seems pretty… yeah, he grabbed a sneaky kiss. Fair enough. Anyway, you are not here for the ladies – you are here for that physique and your burgeoning footy career – good boy. Smooth shoulders? Check. Yeah, feel them. That’s the stuff, outta boy. Legs looking… Ah fuck. Skinny. Check. That’s okay, no one cares anyway. Biceps… not bad. Check. Chest? Pigeony… but again, that’s okay. Work through it, work through it. Only 300 sessions to go until you are toned and rippling. That’s only… help me out here Brainey. Yep, four times a week would be, SEVENTY-FIVE WEEKS?!? Oh no. Oh no… Plus take away optimism, the trips to the beach, big sessions on the beers, sporting life, blowouts, demotivation… 675 weeks? That’s fucking thirteen years. This is a disaster. What is the point, what is the fucking point? I mean, even after thirteen years you are probably going to have skinny legs because you avoid working them at all costs. Why man, why? No, don’t drop your bottom lip, it’s fine, just concentrate on pumping iron and drinking protein shakes and it will all be okay. Trust me. You don’t need to be big anyway, you’ve got… oh wait, that big bloke wants to use the machine you’ve been sitting on for ten minutes whilst you only do one set. Let him go. And don’t crack any gags, he looks big and mean. I doubt he would the ladies you do, he wouldn’t have anywhere near the litany of funny facts, good jokes and unbelievably solid music playlists that you do… but boy, he can lift. Another guy is coming o… okay, he’s homosexual. Fair enough. Still, that solidifies it my man, you’d definitely get more ladies than him. Probably. Maybe he swings. Who knows. Who cares. Move onto the next exercise, please. Chinups? No, too hard. Bench press? Ahhhh, later on, later on. Squats? Dreaming… Haha, good one, very humorous. Bicep curl? I’d say that would be a good place to start… and end. Boy, those biceps look strong. At least a four out of ten. Which, add in your personality and good looks and you are looking at coming in at around a 7.5. That’s not bad. You can’t complain with results. Ah shit, the big bloke is coming over to the rack again. Giving you tips on your technique? Oh fuck. No. No. Pump me up, pump me up!!! Shiiiiiiiiiiit!’

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