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.
No career.
No skills.
No hobby.
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.
Began typing.
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.
