The shit blog of Paul Chris Jones

4:30 am

Dear Diary. Girlfriend wakes me up to change 0-year-old's nappy. So I change his nappy, hand 0-year-old back over to Girlfriend, and then try to go back to sleep.

But I can't go back to sleep. My stupid mind keeps thinking about chest-to-waist ratios (something I only just learned about last night). Apparently the higher a man's chest-to-waist ratio, the more attractive he is.

I almost go back to sleep but then I need to take a piss. So I get up and take a piss. Then I'm feeling thirsty. So I drink some water. Then I need to take a piss again. For fuck sake.

The human body is badly designed if you ask me. Basic functions conflicting with one another: the need to sleep and the need to piss. Why couldn't I just have a bigger bladder?

7:30 am

I'm still awake. I open my eyes and Girlfriend's standing over me. For a moment, while I'm in still in a drowsy, fugue-like state, I imagine she's going to give me my birthday present. And it'll be the best birthday present ever: a sleeping pill. I'll take the pill, fall asleep and then, four to six hours later, I'll wake up feeling happy and refreshed. Then Girlfriend will show me my next present: a private helicopter which will fly us to the Maldives or some other exotic location. The kids will have disappeared — maybe they're with a private nanny for a week, though it could be something else, what do I care — and I'll breathe a sigh of relief so sweet that Willy Wonka could turn it into confectionery.

But no. None of that happens. What actually happens is that Girlfriend wishes me a happy birthday. Then she tells me I need to change 0-year-old's nappy.

2:00 am

We're having lunch at a restaurant for my birthday. I hate this restaurant and I hate the t-shirt I'm wearing. The t-shirt has palm tree leaves, making it look summery and fun, which does not reflect my mood at all: down and tired.

The restaurant is Japanese. They've got the curtains closed because they don't want you to see a view of a concrete wall covered in graffiti outside. There's a quiet atmosphere like you have to talk quietly to each other I'd much prefer to sit outside on a nice day like today but we can't because we've booked this restaurant now.

None of this matters, though. The only thing that matters is the ladder, the climb: the climb to attractiveness. One rung at a time.

Many who try to climb it fail, and never get to try again — the fall breaks them. And some are given a chance to climb, but they refuse. Only the ladder is real, the climb is all there is. The climb to being an attractive man.

It's all that I think about these days. I'm obsessed with becoming attractive. I do gym classes, I think about tattoos, I try to earn more money.

Girlfriend thinks I'm having a mid-life crisis. But is it a mid-life crisis to want to look attractive? Women want to look attractive all the time and no one tells them they're having a mid-life crisis.

8:30 pm

Even though it's my birthday and I should be taking it easy, I'm still as motivated as ever to exercise and get a hunky body. So today I did an hour of rock climbing and then a 50-minute body combat class. I’m pushing myself perhaps a bit too much.

A strange thing happened during the Bodycombat class: I had an epiphany that I'm not as attractive as I think I am. I think I'm a 7/10 or 8/10 but I realised that I'm probably just a 2. Not because I'm hideously ugly, like Quasimodo, but just because women tend to rate normal-looking men low. That made me realise that it's unlikely that any of the women in the Bodycombat class were attracted to me at all. Once I realised that, I felt immense relief as if pressure had been taken off me. I suddenly stopped seeing these women as potential fuckbuddies and started seeing them as people instead. I felt like I could actually talk to them, maybe try to make friends with them. I didn't, of course, but I felt like I could.

It's been almost three hours since I had that epiphany and I still feel as relaxed as if I've spent a week on holiday. All the demons in my head have temporarily gone away. The anger has gone.

I actually feel a bit lonely now, I wish I had someone who understood me. I'd like to be friends with another writer like me. There’s a writer called Jenny Morrill who I'm a big fan of. I'd like to be friends with her but she doesn't know who I am. I'm just a pathetic loser. She needs £5000 to finish a book. I'm thinking about offering it to her outright, I spent £5000 on a hair transplant. A book is probably worth it as well.

I wish I knew better people. I want to go to the beach tomorrow, I don’t know why. It’s a place where people go to be happy I suppose. Girlfriend says no, 0-year-old’s too little. Girlfriend and I are very different people, we disagree on almost everything. I wish I had a girlfriend with some depth, probably she wishes she had a boyfriend who's not so egotistical and obsessive. There must be another way to live.

Oh well. Here's to being 35.