I’m going to start by apologising profusely for the cheerless melancholy I spewed across the internet over the last two days. Evidently a heavy sesh doesn’t take my mind to a place filled with happy bunnies and a naked Zac Efron. I’m back to my normal self-deprecating ways, allowing everyone a good laugh at my misery – because if you don’t laugh, right?
I woke up this morning and all I could smell and taste was hair products. Not that it was an issue; hairspray is gay air freshener. Scented queer with cinnamon apple. But here I am, up and at it, writing before I venture off to row with the other slaves, nervously waiting on my mood swan-diving and breaking its neck. Until that moment though, I’ve been thinking a lot this morning about choices. Not specifically talking about those life changing ones, but rather the wee overlooked ones you make daily. The little ones that you may think don’t actually matter but essentially alter the course of your entire day. Also thinking about the choices regarding people in your life, and if I really need them any more?
Lately I’ve noticed certain people I donate large portions of my time to show me nothing but disrespectful behaviour. I am a good friend; I don’t deserve that. I don’t deserve to be ignored for days on end simply because I don’t mollycoddle you; I’m honest with them, as all friends should be. I feel being told to ‘chill’ when I take issue with someone turning up completely out of their face on drugs and just making a spectacle of themselves, and thus their behaviour is to the detriment of others, is probably the cheekiest thing to say to me. My sole purpose in life is not to save you from yourself. If that makes me sound selfish, then so be it. But where were said people when my world was imploding?
Choices involving the relationships I form, both socially and in work; choices involving my attitude towards people. Why make myself miserable purely for the benefit of someone else? Stop trying to recruit me to fight your battles for you. If something I do makes my life easier then can you really critique me for it? Choices take up time, and time is the most precious thing we have. Yet somehow I feel happiest when I’m wasting it?
Reality is a lot less spectacular than what I imagined my adult life would be like as a kid. I never once pictured myself as I am now, a fully grown adult: alive, but held together by superglue and skinny jeans. Functioning but slowly losing the will to live as I attempt to make choices that probably won’t matter in the long run.
So far my choices seem to do nothing but leave me lying for hours in a weepy embrace with my pillow, shovelling carbs down my throat with gusto, then listlessly kicking my own shins. Choices that leave me in a state of shredded despair. I am not going to pretend I am of grander stock than I am. Fuck, anyone that saw me after a few double vodkas will testify to that, but I need to start making better choices in all areas of my life. As it stands I have the social standing of a plughole. Fair enough, all my regrets are pretty sophisticated, but the only result of my choices so far is that I can consolidate my regrets into a manageable block of misery. A block I then glare at for hours, throwing suggestions at it, then watching as they ricochet off the solid surface and pelt me right in the face.