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Triggers.

The purpose of these daily posts wasn’t simply to get me writing again, but also as a form of catharsis; a way to soothe my soul and stop me wanting to punch things (and people.) With that said I’ll move swiftly on to the topic of today’s entry: Triggers.

I have three easily trigged moods: Anger, despair and hunger. Yes, hunger is legitimate mood. The first of these three, anger, is the one that’ll be choosing to invoke for the duration of this blurb.

The majority of the people I follow on twitter are unbelievable idiots. And I use the word unbelievable because I actually don’t believe they exist. The level of idiocy is hard to accept on a human level. Here’s an idea, why don’t you see how long it takes to get yourself murdered using only Twitter and Facebook? Put your continual online presence to a jittering halt and do us all a favour.

One of the incidents that got me in a funk today is something that bothers me a lot more than it probably should; however, bother me it does so I’m going to howl with rage about it. I cannot abide anyone that thinks they are better than someone else. Period. Arrogance is not a feature I would be proud of owning.  Just because you happened to rack a ridiculous amount of likes on a topless Instagram post, or have an annoyingly symmetrical face or, yeah I’ll say it, are stupidly attractive doesn’t afford you the right to be unkind to us lesser, gremlin-looking beings.  So forgive me if I don’t dote and coo over your half-nude pictures. I’m more inclined to be intrigued and wooed by someone that can muster the ability to host a conversion or make decent fajitas.

The above only really gets to me because I have very low self-esteem. The pressure I feel every day to try and make myself not look like a farting seacow is bludgeoning my ego into a bloody pulp. I’ve started giving up already. I don’t even style my hair any more; I just leave it to flow freely. Wiry, untamed; like a nest of wild birds took out a mortgage in my hair. The need to not resemble a pasty white pudding is consuming me. Must tan. Must have perfectly shaped eyebrows. Must have abs. Must resemble a sexually ambiguous robot.  I take solace in the knowledge that in about 30 years the way we look now will be mocked the way sideburns and 80s hair is. Joey Essex will be a popular Halloween costume in 2046.  Until then I’ve came up with the following excuse for when people shudder in disgust at my latest Instagram pictures: I post selfies in a manner calculated to make people scream with revulsion. It’s all intentional.

Sometimes I wish I was still young, even a baby. Have you noticed that babies are the polar opposite of adults?  And consequently they live in a state of constant bliss and amazement. Oh how I miss that. But now we live in a world where we can access any thought, image, or disturbing pornographic fantasy simply by clicking a button. If anyone finds my innocence let me know? Until then I’ll just hose myself down with alcohol.

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