Fuck.

The amount of work I’ve suddenly had to do has made me turn to writing for a little procrastination. The deadlines coming up, the endless barrage of shifts serving drinks to terrible people and most recently – and most unexpectedly – romance coming at me from all sides. I’ve got a to-do list bigger than the Brexit bill and my way of dealing with it so far has been as improvisational and as random as David Davis’ negotiation style.

Maybe it’s just an inadvertent play act of Californication where I, in this strange moment, am Hank Moody, ‘drowning in a sea of pointless pussy’ much to the dismay and disgust of myself and peers. A massive exaggeration perhaps with that quote yet it’s the only way to describe it. Perhaps the solution is a case of pick someone or none of them and learn to love them or the decision. Being alone or without company for a long time develops a strange status quo and now this peaceful lake has a great big fucking turd floating across its waters. All options lead to compromise and as Hank Moody would attest to, quite simply, the word ‘fuck’. Like David Davis, I’m going to make it all up as I go along and when it turns out shit yet bearable or simply bearable, I’ll climb to atop Clifford’s Tower and proclaim: ‘aha! This was my plan all along’ and hope it sounds convincing, at least for myself.

It’s so draining, the lot of it. The long nights at the bar; the fun yet ultimately expensive nights out and, work – the actual reason I came to university in the first place. Is this just what to expect at second year of university? A delicate act of keeping a torrent of shit at bay with a flimsy umbrella made from the skin off your back, all the while shouting, ‘this is fine, it’s all fine, I’m fine’. Or is that just life itself rather than simply university? It doesn’t help that every project that we seem to create – if you can call what we do on this course creating – ends up like The Room and without all the charm of The Disaster Artist. Professional dissatisfaction behind the bar and camera, and then again in the romantic life. Fuck, not even twenty and I’m crashing against the ceiling that my dad is hitting now at forty-five.

Time is the enemy now more than ever as there’s never enough of it, not enough for sleep or half decent decision making. I keep finding myself saying to people that I’m surprised there hasn’t been more investment into time travel research; like pull your fucking finger out, Elon Musk, I need at least a week to work out what I’d prefer to spend my time around: a vegan fringe, stumpy thumbs or a Geordie accent. A sentiment that probably makes no sense whatsoever to anyone existing outside the soap opera of my life right now, but strangely despite the even more strange context of this clusterfuck, the wind is blowing towards the vegan fringe.

In any case: I need to drop a memo to Elon Musk, I hear he’s quite responsive on Twitter.

Fuck.

Snowflake

Isn’t it just abysmal to be normal? On my first day of secondary school I remember my mother telling me just to fit in and it’ll be fine. It was totally opposite to what I should have heard or perhaps want to now being the advice that Hank Moody gave to his daughter in Californication, as the eponymous song lyric goes, ‘don’t be another brick in the wall’. I can gladly say, I’ve never been that with or without someone telling me so. Conforming down to its most fundamental of wearing a uniform at school made me want to hang myself with the damn thing.

Maybe that’s why I like many people find themselves bored more often than not with the state of everything because it’s so damn samey and cliché like a Britain’s Got Talent tear-jerking back story. It’s unfortunate too that those who actively try to stand out blend in the same like the emo and punk sub-cultures. I find myself becoming another angsty turd at times which indicts an incredible amount of self-loathing that perhaps affects nearly everyone who holds a little bit of contempt for the hordes of high street zombies you see.

The constant infinite cycle of monotony makes me want to tear my eyes out but on occasion I find people who share my view. Unfortunately, nine-out-of-ten of these people are just the worst people imaginable or batshit crazy or both. Yet in those strange and rarer moments, that one is the one worth hanging around on this tiny rock of ours.

That’s an unusually hopeful statement but there you go. It’s like being a prospector in the gold rush, just sifting through the dregs in the river.  Many do give up and assign themselves to live a lie under the banner of whatever or whoever makes us compromise the least. I wish I could do that but a reason for a falling number of friends is because I’ve always struggled to compromise on anything at all. Call it a blend of Napoleon-syndrome and being an only child filled with individualism going through a school system that endorses bipartisanship and anti-libertarianism at every turn. Maybe I am alone in that and I’m just another special snowflake. Yet isn’t that the point of being individualistic?

It’s another mental minefield that I find myself in because simply the nature of asking the question makes me hate myself for having to. When someone says snowflake in reference to a person, I imagine – perhaps like many others – the androgynous vegan, chain smoker who enjoys Jake Bugg’s music and anything with quinoa. It’s not quite what I see in a mirror, primarily because I don’t have the funds for those Lucky Strikes and being a vegan seems almost as bad as having to live with one in university halls.

Snowflake