Anxiety with depression is what the doctor said and prescribed me sertraline. Turns out the side effects are making me worse by a fair few miles but luckily, it’ll apparently only be for a week or so. In the mean time I can live life like Charlie from It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia, tweaking from one moment to the next it’s the fucked-up adventure I’ve been dying for. In my quest to have a sunnier disposition I’ve signed myself up for at least six months of altering my brain chemistry which will be six months of learning to be careful for what I wish for.

I realise that it’s been a while since I wrote anything worth posting, the rest is just patch work fictional universes scribbled in notebooks. Unfortunately, it’s just furthering the image of the scuzzy weirdo in every mystery movie that I’ve got going right now. Who knows, by the end of the week I’ll be so panicked by my own shadow that I create a Thomas Cole style epic out of the my now very water bowel movement depicting something borne of Lovecraft. The isolation of my room is definitely self-inflicted – as is this whole situation as a matter of fact considering my own brain is working against me – but it’s been a peaceful few days.

It’s incredible how little things really change if you just remove yourself from the situation. It’s an eye opener, a feat of the universal imperative that despite the individual, things just keep spinning. Every so often I get a text about how some one’s been a twat or a reminder of new Netflix series that’s just been released. It’s the same relentless shit the world over whether we’re a part of it or not. That argument falls apart when you’re someone like Donald Trump or I don’t know, someone whose existence is worth while like people trying to cure cancer. What about God? What would happen if God just took their hands of the wheel, would we even know? I’m not even sure if there was ever someone driving. We’re just hurtling down the highway of galactic history in this out of control stagecoach trying not to shit ourselves.

But what the fuck do I know? I’m just a twenty-year-old on SSRI medication just so I can see through my final year of university without going feral. Personally, I think of myself as being a little bit pathetic, I mean I’ve got so much privilege that I don’t know what to do with it. A cosmic ‘fuck you’ to balance the score? Like I said, I have no idea, I’ll just keep on winging it and hoping on keeping it together. It’s the most any of us can.



Fun fact: people are fickle as shit. I’m not innocent just yesterday I was dead set on quitting my job and was full of piss and vinegar then I had a few drinks and a quick chat with a co-worker about DC lore and now, well… my shift starts at nine tonight. It’s the constant stream of crisis that made me want to quit my job at the bar. At any one time, a staff member is in meltdown or a customer is dishing out empty threats – and then try to force their way back in to ‘apologise’, okay fuck-face, sure.

I probably should quit but there’s always tomorrow for that.

In other related news, I’m reading this great book right now which is strange for me as I barely ever describe something as great if not related to fucking or cheesecake, and I read even less. It’s A City Dreaming by Daniel Polansky. As of right now, reading that and getting wasted on Corpse Revivers is the only thing giving me encouragement to stay out of my bed. Absinthe and my bed have a lot in common actually. They both make me feel warm and fuzzy and I get to avoid difficult questions and neurotics from projecting their shit at me. I have to say, that book is excellent, I do recommend it and wish my life was anything close to as interesting as the protagonist’s. Arguably it’s as dysfunctional and just as alcohol, sex, and coffee orientated – which by the way, Mother, isn’t a bad thing at all, I’m having a good time or at least seem like I am.

This post will unfortunately be a short one, I’ve yet to have a morning black coffee and as I’m so easily distracted, once I close the document, I seldom open it up again. You really know your life is in a sorry state of affairs when your own words start to bore you. Maybe I should mix it up for you, the reader, by throwing in a random FUCK for dramatic effect.

 Note to self: engage in more booze fuelled hijinks for better anecdotes.



My brain is doing a nice thing again where it won’t allow me to sleep until it’s literally impossible for me to open my eyes. It’s the inability to switch off that’s doing it, something in my capacity as an unqualified non-expert I’ve identified as the fault of society somehow. Netlflix culture? Piers Morgan perhaps? His reputation can survive the hit of being the cause of insomnia world wide as well as being an arsehole. On the positive, I did make friends with a lost cat last night at 3 AM, one I named Pickle for the sake that her demeanour demonstrated that she was in a pickle. Christ, I need to develop a better sense of humour – note to self.

The other side of this meant that today in particular I was snappy with people for seemingly no reason, which while some people may say it’s detrimental to relationships it actual perhaps is a blessing in disguise. Considering the weeks of limited semi-sleep and apparently no end in fucking sight, I’ll have the demeanour and visage of the 12th Doctor by the end of September. Who wants that around them? Wouldn’t it be a far better public service for that element to be removed, no offence to Peter Capaldi – Peter, I still love you. I don’t know why people shit on self-destructive behaviour so much, I mean, I’m not the one going to benefit, it’ll be everyone else. They’ll have an easier time as they won’t have to deal with my baggage and I’ll be less stressed for the same reason. Plus, I get a lot more done when I do things by myself; going to restaurants on your own is much better than going with other people for example, that’s a secret in life I learnt early on that no one will tell you.

So what if I end up alone and depressed like Bojack Horseman with cocaine flecks in my beard and a fridge filled solely with Southern Comfort? That show has great ratings and Will Arnett is a household name somewhere. Alternatively, I could go to Morrisons and get some sleeping tablets to regulate it. If only I could be actually fucking motivated to leave the house other than to get shitfaced.

Chance would be a fine thing.


Man-Child Music

I definitely, did not forget to write a new post sooner, I want to make that very clear. It’s been put off so I can catch up on my habit of sleeping 16 hours a day, which for those who don’t, is a joy. The phone was on silent; the housemates’ punchable faces are no where to be seen; and bad choices relating to alcohol, spending, and women can’t be produced. I’ve also made some stylistic decisions when it comes to writing, making my topics based more so in my own life rather than my bastardised Mark I, stillborn blog. This is the point where a more caring writer would implore you to give feedback on that. Unfortunately, for whoever is reading this, I write for my own sanity rather than an innate desire to be loved which is something people in the 21st century have a problem with.

Speaking of which:

A rather talented graphic artist that I went to school with has just released his own music. It’s the second single that he’s dragged up from the bowels of hell, something for some reason he’s given up on higher education for. Sure, X – I’m calling X for the sake of anonymity for him and to save those curious people from trying to listen to his garbage –, has never been a particularly likeable person outside of his new group of vanity chain smoking, dead-eyed club girls. X and I were in the same group that sat together at lunch and pretending to get along for the sake of everyone else. He thought I was an arsehole, which isn’t wrong, and I thought he was an image obsessed attention seeker, and, clearly from his endless fucking Snapchat stories about his new hair blue dye and lip-syncing Nicki Minaj, I wasn’t wrong either.

The only thing stranger than this grown man’s sworn convictions in his own singing abilities is his child-like fascination for every female character in media. First it was Harley Quinn then it was Scarlet Witch then it was Margery Tyrell. As someone who enjoys variety in conversation speaking exclusively for hours on end about the nuances of Natalie Dormer in portraying his ‘favourite fantasy protagonist’ out of sheer social obligation made me want to tear my eyes out and mush them into my fucking ears. Ironically, that last bit is how I feel about his music.

As much as I despise the overgrown man-child, he’s a good artist with a potential to be a great one with a career in illustration. Yet X is so stuck on this music high that he doesn’t realise that he wasn’t asked to stop going to open mic nights around his home town because ‘they had too many acts’. It depresses me it really does – obviously as well as giving me a good chuckle when I feeling shitty about myself – and, as I was ranting about this to a friend the other day I was told why am I not just happy that he is doing something he’s passionate about?

The simple answer is that as someone who is typically passionless about all things I can identify a bad thing when I see it. A total waste of potential and the cherry on the cake made of human shit is that he’s published himself on Spotify accidentally under an already registered artist; an unfortunate American gospel singer who’ll definitely sue if the music industry finally dies a death and X gets a break. Personally, I blame all the people who politely told him that he’s good: those vanity chain smoking, dead-eyed club girls.

Man-Child Music

Easter in August

After many months of ignoring my blog and after much contemplation of just deleting it entirely, I’ve decided instead to start afresh. The reason for this is mostly because of my inability to keep things from people when I’m drunk after I’ve ran out of other interesting – or not so interesting – anecdotes. Suddenly there was a moral panic about what to write about and who to write about considering I couldn’t remember who I’d told and who’d read some words of scorn. Naturally, if they had been the subject of scorn, obviously they probably fucking deserved it; the only issue with that however is the biggie, being that a confession booth is a bit redundant when you stick a megaphone on it.

Months have gone by and the badgering about posting to the blog from friends – yes, friends! Who knew? But only a few let’s not get carried away – and acquaintances has finally come to an end. Four months fashionably late after Easter, I’ve forced this blog, and whatever creative or motivational energy I have, back to life and out of the rocky mausoleum. So, what if Christ beat me at the metaphorical resurrection game by 113 days? I’ll bet you any money in his lifetime, Jesus didn’t get a very staged overly-priced picture with David Duchovny, so ha! – I win, sort of.

To make it clear now, despite that previous analogy, I’m in no way comparing myself with the biblical figure Jesus of Nazareth, he was a much better story teller than I will ever be. No one’s starting a crusade in the name of Mills & Boon erotica so, believer or not, his short stories about being nice to people must have at least been written well for people to start massacring each other over them. Even then, my attention span is far too short to even hash out a Mills & Boon novel. Well this paragraph is all over the place, besides that, the point is, my comparison was a half-arsed attempt at an amusing self-depreciating pop not a holier-than-thou statement.

Apparently based on that little ramble, in the time since my last blog post I’ve become incredibly insecure that I have to justify and defend myself about everything or maybe by saying that it’s just being insecure in my insecurity. This is exactly why I downloaded Tinder again; in hopes that a litany of shallow matches will mean a nice little boost for my ego and self-esteem by easing my apparent constant panic. The bonus to that, obviously, is getting laid once in a while. Let’s not even talk about finding long term commitment on Tinder or – fuck it – love, I’m far too self-absorbed for any of that for the time being as I’ve recently discovered, as my ex-girlfriend did too.

So, there you have it to surmise; a shitty life pro tip for you after all the waffle: download Tinder. At worst it’s a desperate distraction of shallow attraction and shallower banter, at best you get laid so what more can you ask for out of a free app? It’s not like Candy Crush which, if you pardon the pun, really is fucking soul crushing.

Easter in August