Run and tell your friends.

(Guest Writer)

Life is a strange blur at the minute. There are times when I feel fine, and can subside the inevitable shit that’s trapped in my pipeline. If you hold your nose maybe you won’t smell it, and you can just breathe out of your mouth long enough.

If you check in day to day, it’s vastly different. I can be fine all day and then switch after I don’t get a reply, or I linger on one moment too long. It’s insane. Losing your mind is fine if you can do it in a way that doesn’t affect other people, so that’s what I’ve decided to do, to just hold it for myself. Sure there’s counselling and everything and that’s great. It’s great to talk to someone and get it out in the air, but you know, that covers an hour a week. The rest of the time is just bullshit.

To get away from the general shitheap, there are other things can trouble me for a while. Possibilities that I consider every week or so but know I won’t do anything about. There’s an air of mystery I like to have within my own mind. Knowing everything is overrated.

Failing coursework is always a plus. Why would you want to feel like you had your academic life in check when your other sides to your mind are fucked? Might as well keep everything at the same level.

We’ll see what happens.

Peace

Run and tell your friends.

I’m Not Dead

As the title says: I am not dead, yet in all honesty I wonder fucking why not. Obviously from my own observations I love myself too much for suicide to be a literal thing, it’s more of a deep dark wallowing feeling like how I imagine the Queen feels talking to Jeremy Corbyn.

I’ve betrayed the little promise to myself to write more perhaps because I’ve managed to, in a few cleverly placed fuck ups, dismantle my life again and again much to the dismay of my co-workers and friends. The highlight of my month was a very drunk ex coming into the bar where I work to call me a shit and chat up my manager to make me jealous. Unfortunately, the desired effect was lost as all I felt was confusion and a stress headache from all the to-and-fro I did from the sink to get her glasses of water. The general manager legitimately considered changing my name on the till to ‘Bastard’. Something I’m not sure what to feel about which perhaps indeed, makes me a bastard somehow.

In the last two weeks things have settled and I’ve started seeing someone who has thus far been perhaps the most stable human being I’ve been with. Although last night post a mutually disappointing sexual encounter I felt so much like a pissing puppy I quickly left much to her dismay and confusion by midnight.

People always say that sex isn’t the be all and end all but considering the highly integral part in pretty much everything in our lives sex plays, the unfortunate truth is that it is. From Bratz dolls with mini-skirts to pretty much Kevin Spacey, sex is in the forefront of the media circus that is humanity in 2018 – what an incredible fucking ‘covfefe’ right? Christ even the literal big cheese, Donald Trump, is embroiled in a scandal around sex; by all accounts on an entirely different level to the lack of any climax issue from my night, but it just helps the point. BBC News sent me a news alert on my phone to inform me that a porn star is suing the president because apparently, we live in a disturbing episode of South Park rather than the intelligent Orson Wells dystopia we all sort of didn’t wish for (but definitely did for the sake of the sheer fact we can all boast we’ve actually read anything by Orson Wells – I for one haven’t). It’s all fine though of course, Freud was about as disconnected from reality as Theresa May is from the youth vote so not to worry, blame the media not your weird relationship with your mother.

Aside from the internal screeching I’ve been experiencing for the past day the whole situation seems very arbitrary from an outsider’s perspective. This shit probably happens to millions of people every day and then they, like me, spend the next twenty-four hours wallowing in pyjamas, binge watching Hell’s Kitchen – it’s been updated on Netflix for anyone wondering. The most depressing thing though is that this normally comes to people having sex for the very first time or are in their mid-forties which means once again I’m coming across like an unfortunate Gen-Y not really adapting to the world outside of my AOL dial-up internet and Sabbutteo.

Fuck, I’ve become my dad. That’s it: time to take me off to the local for unnamed amber beer; confusing, ill-informed racist rants; all while wearing at least five-year-old polos. Obviously shoot me immediately after because it would be the kindest thing to do. It’d never be for me I can’t stomach racism, let alone amber beer.

I’m Not Dead

Resolutions

So, the new year has come and gone bringing the grim reminder that despite Jules Holland’s tacky festive buzz, things are still the same if not fucking worse. I can’t decide on if it’s the weather; my inability to make productive, meaningful decisions; or this weird caffeine-induced nausea I have from my relatively late-night coffee. This time last year I started watching The Good Wife on Netflix and right now as I type it’s playing on in the background making me once again wish I picked anything other than media production for a vocation. I blame Julianna Margulies’ dead eyes, in all honesty.

I have key things I need to resolve for this year, the first and primary priority is doing the coursework I was meant to start several weeks ago but alas, each time I go to open the study books I have the strange urge to tear my fucking eyes out, and impale the bloody empty sockets on the nibs of the new gel pens I bought from WHSmith’s for the new semester. It’s dangerous how much I’ve thought that hypothetical fantasy through although it’s refreshing to be different from fantasising over all the joy I would be revelling in the roads not taken over the past two years of university. Perhaps I should take my own advice that I gave to my housemate who a few weeks ago was in a rage over ketchup consumption: ‘jerk off and go to bed, you’ll feel better in the morning if not with less self-respect’. I wonder how many wars have started in the world thanks to world leaders not taking that on board. Its fun to think we live on a planet where Bush declared war on Iraq because in some old dried up, hill-billy fashion he was just sexually frustrated. If not fun, at the very least sadly ironic and just another feather in the cap for toxic masculinity. Well not just toxic masculinity’s fault – maybe Margaret Thatcher, for example, just felt weird about getting intimate in No. 10 and decided to fuck the worker’s unions instead.

Christ, that was a tangent.

In other news, another sound resolution that I will definitely not take on board – or possibly even acknowledge in anyway outside of this piece – is to eat more vegetables because that incredibly cliché Jamie Oliver bullshit resolution is much more manageable than pressing matters. I don’t even know why I don’t eat more vegetables and I’m blaming all the vegan-bashing that I’ve been doing for the past year or so. I could go back to living off cabbage soup again and loose more weight that I desperately need as I slip out of David Tennant’s Doctor skinny and into the zones of an early-two-thousands Victoria Beckham. The M&S steak habit is becoming decadent, after all.

Two resolutions are enough, right? Fuck it, it’ll be fine and no one needs to be told what to do by an arbitrary date invented by Romans. That perhaps is another nugget in this weird ramble that should be taken on board more by people for self-improvement in the ever-arbitrary new year. Damn, I’m quite impressive with this sort of thing when I stop talking about myself.

Holy shit, I’m a narcissist – resolution three: don’t do that in 2018.

Resolutions