Saturday Saturday a work of Fiction by Catflap (Gerry Quinn) Welcome to a Saturday afternoon in the life of every ordinary young individual - every young individual without an alternative lifestyle and a sense of the mystic, that is. Some of us are confused as to what our generation is supposed to be. Welcome to an exercise in pointlessness, or one personís Saturday afternoon. ëThree beers and that tingle in your cheek bones - perhaps not the most constructive way to spend a Saturday, but better than some I can think ofÖí He thought. Hard. Actually, now that he stopped being angry for a while, he couldnít actually think of a more pointless way to spend an afternoon. Maybe that was fine, a time to relax and not think. Sure, there was a Sunday to come after this Saturday, plenty of time to do something constructive. But then, Sunday hardly counted. The entirety of Sunday was ruined by the fact of Monday. And Monday wasÖwell, Monday. What was one supposed to do? Youth had seemed so invulnerable and everlasting. Now here he was, in his early twenties, working like a dog, swearing to himself that it was only so he could get enough money to live and then do what he really wished, but all the time knowing that he was only doing it to get enough money to live. He was too tired to do anything else. But isnít that what everyone does? ëAnd then 40 years later they die cursing at the mysterious entity who screwed up their lives and never gave them a chance?í He smiled. Nihilism isnít fashionable, he knew that. Neither is self-loathing. Or pathos. So whatís left for someone who really canít see the point? ìSuicide?î Even thatís not fashionable. He took another drag of his cigarette. Really should quit. ëChrist!í Another thing everyone seems to be saying. Maybe this is growing up. Maybe this is just what generation-sodding-X really is. A lot of bluster and wind but no substance. Or its substance is in its lack of substance? People are always drawn to the elements of people that they are most envious of. Those things that are most unattainable. Hence the constant crying back to the past. Nostalgia is the opium of the people. ìSomeone more important than me said that once.î Someone more important. What a choiceÖ He tipped the bottle back until the last dribble of lager sped down the neck and into his throat. Placing it deliberately on the front step, he slowly hauled up his lithe frame and turned to go into the house. A Saturday afternoon of profound thinking had occurred, and he smiled to himself as he pondered the point of his life and zipped open his fly. As relief washed over him and the urine splashed into the bowl he thoughtÖ ìBut what good is the thinking?î Created on 00/00/00 and last modified on Sat, 20 Dec 1997.

LOUDonline - http://www.loud.net.au - Fri, 10 Apr 1998