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.

An Education

The night I had last night was quite different and started out with a mistake on good old, toxic social media, to remind me of a series of mistakes made long ago. That being the kind that happens when two newly single people, both intoxicated do not stop themselves from doing a stupid thing that both will come grimace at the thought of. Since it happened, being able to remember, in a tipsy grumble, not saying no to the plied cider and the rest, has haunted me like a street not walked down. What if I had turned left and through my drunkenness regained that self-control to say no to what was happening and do the intelligent thing and sleep on the couch? Regret can do strange things for people. In my experience, it made looking in the mirror that more difficult for a while and gave me the skills to spot a train crash before it happens – sometimes. Yet, for others, the thought has become so sour, they must abstain from all accountability.

It’s the sobering effect after when it hits you. That feeling of regret in your gut the mixes with the guilt of being able to remember what happened in the first place. For hours I was there, staring into the darkness, unravelling the motives of the night. What was all the cider about? Was that a weird rebound for both of us? Could either have us actually stopped once the damn train had left the station?

We all deal with regret in different ways, some better than others. Whether we like it or not, regrets, the mistakes we made and how we deal with the consequences of them define us far better than the successes. The sad fact of life is that dwelling on the bad times is more educational than the good. It’s a big learning process that creates the foundations of what we define to be the good and the bad. To deny and deflect our regrets on to others teaches us nothing other than to avoid responsibility for ourselves and our own actions. It’s the reason I don’t believe it when people say ‘I have no regrets’. The roads not travelled define our lives more than the ones we take; does this make those regret-less creatures a blank space, or just another unruly student not willing to learn from the best teacher there is: life?

An Education