And sometimes, just as the tender infant deer takes its first trembling steps away from the protection of its mother, a fucking great bear comes and rips its arsehole off and bites its head in half.
So it was today that I, Dave Knockles, Ex-Marketing Director, took my first hopeful journey into a new life. And life, being the cunt-clacker that it is, fisted me so royally up the jack-pipe, I can barely fucking sit down to write this.
It went this way.
I rose early, full of hope, took a cautious dump, breakfasted eagerly, hit the sofa with the jobs section of the local rag and had a quick snooze. I awoke again, still full of hope, and made a few calls. Nobody said, 'You're hired! When can you start?' so I had another shit and went to Delilaz.
That was where things took a nose-dive.
As well as looking at bristolas and drinking scotch 'n' WKD, I go to Delilaz to see my Cutella. Cutella is my woman, my muse, my mystery, my bottomless pack of Pringles. When I'm down, she picks me up. (Sometimes by my dangle-bag, which I am man enough to admit to liking.) When I'm sad she makes me smile. When others misunderstand me, she calls them cunts.
I was desperate to see her. So the minute I'd finished my fourth drink and had had a quick go on a couple of the girls, I sought her out.
'Baby!' I said when I found her, straddling Barry Cradish while he stuffed twenties down her tits.
'Davey!' she said back and booted Cradish off to find someone else to dribble on.
'I've got great news, sweet-jeans,' I said.
'Have you had a pay-rise, flumps?' she replied, excited.
'Even better!' I said. 'I've quit my job! I'M A FREE MAN!'
Her face froze. Only worse. She looked like someone having a stroke.
'What's up, bunny-babes?' I stuttered.
'Well, this ain't good, Davey. This is the oppo-fucking-site of good.'
'How am I supposed to set up house and build a life of aspiration and quality furnishings with some cunt with no job?'
'You'd better fuck off, Dave. My Dad told me about lazy cunts like you.'
'You're Dad's on death row, angel-peach.'
'Yeah - so he knows all about cunts, doesn't he? He's in there with 'em all fucking day.'
'But I'll get a job, fluffy-doll.'
She turned very, very angry. Her beautiful and delicate face became something else entirely. (Well, it didn't actually change that much because the Botox was really working its socks off, but her eyes told me everything.)
'At your fucking age? You must be nuts. Dear me. You need to jog on, Dave. I can't have this. I've got dreams of a minimalist executive home and a staircase made of glass what just sticks in the wall with no bannister or nothing and looks like it's floating and is all see-through and is on Grand Designs, you cunt! You know this! You know about my dreams! You know about my staircase! How could you fucking do this to me?'
Well, there was no arguing with the glass staircase. It had been a dream of Cutella's since 2007. And you can't argue with dreams like that.
As I walked away, slumped, shambling, agonised, I turned, hoping to see her staring after me, distraught.
No such fucking luck. She was sitting on Darren Beanaugh's lap feeding him Monster Munch.
In the words of the song, I just don't know what to do with myself.
This has hit me hard, in a private special place. And I know only one way to get over such a desperate situation: get smashed and find some dirty slags to cuddle.
I will do this now.
Why? Because I am no longer the client.