Some people think it might be fun to live in a sitcom. They think it would be funny to hang out with their favourite characters, and be part of the wacky shenanigans and goings on. But believe you me, they’re wrong.
Living in a sitcom is horrific.
And I should know.
It all started a few years ago, when I moved in to my new house. Something was wrong, something I hadn’t noticed when I bought it. It took me days to put my finger on the source of my unease. Then, one afternoon, when I was sitting on the sofa, watching some terrible property renovation show, my attention wandered, and I gazed past the TV set.
The whole back wall was missing.
In its place was a rake of sloped seating, all empty.
My eyes opened, I looked around, and realised the ceiling was gone too, replaced by a massive lighting rig. Doors that used to lead somewhere now just opened onto nothing, and I could see the wooden supports holding up my walls.
Horror kicked in.
I realised that my friends only came to visit at 9pm on a Thursday night. And when they did, it was never just for a nice chat, they always had some problem that needed resolving. A relationship they couldn’t end, a spat at work, a garbage disposal unit in their shower on the blink.
And my own life was a mess too. I couldn’t hold down a job, or a relationship. I was on an endless cycle of dates with people I didn’t really like. My neighbour kept popping in, even though we had never spoken before.
Every week, it was something new. It would be hell for a while, and then everything would just … go back to normal. And we’d never speak of it again. Like that time I accidentally married my brother’s girlfriend, or that time my long lost cousin came to stay, or that time the angel of death came to lead me slowly into the afterlife, or that time I kept falling through bar hatches, or that time we went on University Challenge, or that time we went on Robot Wars, or that time we had a contest.
On and on it went.
Then it just stopped.
No-one popped in anymore. Nothing interesting happened. My life became monotonous and routine. Wake up, shower, eat, work, shop, home, eat, telly, sleep, rinse, and repeat. My drum was constantly humming.
I’m stuck here, living out my days, staring at rows and rows of empty seats and lifeless cameras, with nothing to do but count the days.
Someone should write a sitcom about my life.
It would be hilarious.
