Lousy at life.

You know those days when no matter what you wear you’ll never be happy with that creature staring back you in the mirror? Not matter how you style your hair, or how many times you changed outfit. People can bombarded you with multiple compliments, say ‘you look fine’ yet you still desperately cling to that fundamental believe that you look like a troll that’s been on a four day bender and woke up in a cesspool of its own vomit and desperation. Well, that’s me today. I feel as though I am the very definition of repugnance. An ork that has been promptly booted through Topman. I am avoiding all reflective surfaces like you would avoid carbs before going on holiday.

This onslaught of rampant self-loathing (and narcissism) has stemmed from yesterday’s extremely high anxiety levels. Thanks for piggybacking your way over to the next day, you relentless sod. My life is hardly a barrel of carefree chuckles, and I was concerned that every post was beginning to sound extremely vapid because all I do is document my life and talk about my own existence. Which yes was the point of me starting this, as a sort of outlet; a downpour of my thoughts on to a blank canvas. But I’d like to write about something other than myself, but it just doesn’t seem possible this week. Whining about being the centre of my own universe. I created this ornamental fishpond, and now I’m moaning that the goldfish are shitting in the water.

Anyone reading this that happens to then stumble upon my Instagram will likely think that I’m a sad-eyed loser. I need to revamp my existence, remix my life. I need a change, a win. A triple-word Scrabble score. Because right now my life tastes precisely like I’ve swallowed a shoebox full of bitter lemons. I need this medication to kick in and give me a confident chemical oomph so I can get myself going. Because right now I am rather lousy at life. I just stumble through the day, limp from one crisis to another, avoid mirrors, composing wee tunes im my head and singing them aloud frightening passers-by or prompting them to put fling change at my feet if I’m standing still.

The above self-delivered inspirational quips work on the assumption that 1) I believe things are going to get better and 2) that the sea of raging hormones will finally ebb and I will no longer be tossed from the edge of crying, to manic laughter, to extreme depths of self-loathing. Once all of that settles, then I’m sure I’ll be able to pen something that doesn’t make me sound quite as vapid. Possibly. Let’s start now: I’ve mastered the power of positive giving up! Wait…

The thing is I’m really not a self-centred person, I care a lot for others. I have a lot of compassion and patience for those I care for, I just find it hard to express that in person. Let me text it to them and I’ll write something profound and beautiful and caring, but in person I just sort of grunt at people. Except when I’m drunk, I’m only nice when I’m drunk. The trouble is it’s so hard to verbally articulate how I feel, so writing becomes my only outlet. Then as a result I write entry after entry and it makes me sound shallower than a kids paddling pool.

Ironically as I’ve been typing this I’ve been forced to endure my ugly mug reflected back at me via the screen. So much for avoiding reflective surfaces.