This is my first post in my first blog. I wonder if anyone is going to read it. Someone probably will. A lot of people have very little to do. English is not my first language, so my language may seem eccentric at times.
Ingenting is norwegian for nothing. I have nothing to say, there is nothing I want to express. Not right now, anyway. This is going very slowly. I haven’t written anything since university. I got my little degree sixteen years ago, in the process of getting it I had to write essays and papers, or whatever it is called, on my typewriter. Back then, I still retained some of the skills from the typewriting classes at school. They are now gone. Hopefully they will come back. They easily could, unlike my clear skin and good looks. Those things are gone. I’m halfway through life, the presence of, and interaction with, young and attractive women in their childbearing age, fills me with frustration. There is a glimpse of hope, as they try to get my attention, or smile flirtatiously (for some reason, they do), but it soon becomes evident that I will never get close to them. Not in the way that I want.
I’m writing and expressing myself. This is a good start. I have already painted a picture of a soon-to-be middle-aged man, very single, slightly bitter. Not quite happy, neither with himself, nor the world around him. This could turn into good entertainment. For some.
There is laundry to be done. This attractive-looking block of flats has a communal laundry. Laundry time is booked on the internet. That has not been working lately. I’ve been down there to do a manual booking with my washing-machine card, but the last time I did that, an unattractive, heavy-set woman infringed on my laundry-time, severely damaging the efficiency I try to achieve. She excused herself with a breath that smelled of wine. The incident left me with a feeling of hopelessness.
