A post about nothing

This is getting to be a real problem. I read something and am immediately caught by the urge to write, when I should be reading and doing work. Why is it I only feel inspired to write or play music when I should be doing something else? That's why I can't finish reading my books. Good writing is too inspiring. Here I am, 24, and nothing has changed. I'm still the lazy waster I always was. The worst thing is that it doesn't look like it's gonna change any time soon.
I've always tried to find out what it is that typifies our generation, for it seems that there's something to be said about every generation. So what is it that typifies ours? Our generation is characterised by its emptiness. By its struggle and utter inability to cope with its nothingness, its meaninglessness. It's hard to get out of bed in the morning. It's always warmer under the sheets, and there's very little outside that's worth giving up that comforting warmth for. Everyone I know is a waster. Those who are not wasters I don't want to know. My housemate is watching Gordon Ramsey in the next room. He's not a waster. He's 18 and has a full time job working almost 15 hours each day. He knows what he wants from the future and doesn't have to worry about uncertainty. He makes me sick and I can't stand to spend any time with him. P. came over for new year's. He, too, is a great waster. As great as me. 'Greater', he would probably insist. He's been unemployed for almost a year. I think that's his greatest achievment, as well as the most endearing one in my eyes. 'We're better than them', he assures me. 'Why?', 'Because they're monkeys! At least we're interested in films and music and literature, and we can still laugh at Spongebob and Ren & Stimpy!'. 'But look at some of these people. They wouldn't be caught dead with us.'
That's why we always end up in dingy shitholes at the end of every night instead of at some classy nightclub. And what's more, we love it that way. That's the only place where we can be happy at the end of a night of drinking, when we're too pissed to stop our eyeballs from oscillating wildly, unable to fix on anything, and are so slow that we must help eachother complete our sentences. We're content with being here at the end of the night, surrounded by these middle-aged wrecks who attend nightly, carried inside on their own powerlessness to help themselves. This is where these women belong. This is their lair, where they like to inspect whatever unlucky young creature happens to wander in. It is the web, and they the spiders, returning for leftovers. Well, you can't have any of this meat, you old hags! I'm just here to watch. you intrigue me. Why do you all have such interesting stories? 'I'm raising my girl to be proud of her Geordie heritage. 'Cos it's a dying dialect, you know?'. 'If I had my roots in you', I think to myself, 'I wouldn't have much to be proud of'.
So we eventually leave the bar and make out way towards the studios behind the Cluny. We'd been told there was a party taking place there. 'As if they'll let us in. I've told you, P., we're not good enough for those kind of places!'. We walk up the steps and I ring the bell. 'Hello?', says a voice. 'Hi, I was told to come to the party'. 'By who?', 'Harry'. The voice consolts someone in the background and returns with a verdict. 'Sorry, don't know any Harry'. 'But you must know Harry! Everyone knows Harry!'. Thus ends another night of nothing.