Some would say a broken heart fuels creativity; that’s why we write, paint and make music.
The pain and the hurt that translates into art feels good because we love ripping it out of us and pouring it onto a page. Sometimes the feeling transcends words, so we put it into metaphors and abstract oil paintings, and people lap it up because they love the feeling it gives them. Sometimes the art touches them in a way they can’t explain, simply because of that incomprehensibility.
They love to read about it, to watch it, to hear it. Driving home as the rain hits your window, pretending you’re in a music video whilst you listen to songs about cheaters and broken homes, songs about violence; it’s cathartic. Marvin’s Room makes your tears feel hotter, but you listen to it on repeat and God knows why.
I have a hunch.
Misery loves company, and nobody wants to know they’re the only one suffering. Maybe they want to know their feelings are valid and shared. Maybe they desperately want to see how much worse it could be. Maybe they like the idea of other people suffering because the feeling of bitterness is perversely satisfying. We like pain and we like to know that we aren’t the only ones in it. We all exist somewhere on this spectrum of sadomasochism.
“Hate is the complement of fear and narcissists like being feared. It imbues them with an intoxicating sensation of omnipotence.”
― Sam Vaknin, Malignant Self-Love: Narcissism Revisited
selfishness, involving a sense of entitlement, a lack of empathy, and a need for admiration, as characterizing a personality type.
This post has been sitting in my drafts for about a month and I no longer care about it, which is why I haven’t posted it… but I think I’m the guinea pig of the dating world. Apparently having ‘I am your mother’ plastered on my forehead, I somehow always found myself associating with the worst of the worst, so it’s only right that I use that for the greater good and teach you what I’ve learnt. And what I have learnt since then is the difference between a bitch boy and a man. I know the gender-is-a-social-construct brigade will get at me for that, but what can I say? There are men and there are men. We’re always categorising women, it’s only fair to do the same. When you’ve gone from dealing with boys who throw their toys out the pram for not buying them food to men who actually have their shit together and act like men, it’s hard not to talk about it.
But this post isn’t about the men, it’s about the bitch boys. I include the definition of narcissism because all sociopaths are narcissists. But not all narcissists are sociopaths.
The difference? Intention.
Both have extreme adoration for themselves, both will always put themselves first, both feel no genuine sense of guilt. Both are undeniably and unhealthily in love with themselves. Both are practically the same, bar one major difference.
A narcissist loves himself and will accidentally hurt you in the process because he’ll always put himself first. He cares about you, but he cares about himself more.
A sociopath loves himself and will at points intend to hurt you because he wants you to be hurt, and he’ll do anything to achieve that.
When will someone nominate me for the Worst Blogger award?
The devil really is locked up because I’ve just written a blog post after two months of nothing. Not a single word.
I guess I’m supposed to include an update of my life here, except I’m not going to because when do I ever do that? Also I’m yawning and my eyes hurt and I’m sick. If you want to see me rant, my twitter is available for you to view all the thoughts I could and should have kept to myself. I’m at a weird point in my life, though. Super inspired but super unmotivated. Super happy, but super nonchalant. Super ready to be an adult, but.. yeah. In a weird limbo where the pieces of my puzzle are just hovering above me, waiting for me to give them the go ahead to just drop into place. Not yet tho, I’m not done being a fuck up.
I’m not worried, though. My skin is shit, but I’m not worried. My life isn’t any better on paper at all, but in my head, it’s all rosy. My mental health was suffering last year, and anxiety is now but a distant memory. It’s weird to think that I had a prescription for antidepressants that I, thankfully, didn’t collect. I went to a gig alone. I cut my hair. I give people chances. I now go with my gut instead of overanalysing every little thing. I say yes more. I say no more. I’m a whole other person. And I wanna tell you how I did it, starting with this post.
Happy New Year, I say in the middle of January.
I was AWOL for a long, long time. A time in which I rapidly grew, though sadly only in mind, and not in height, but it’s alright because I made up for that by buying platforms in the sales. I suddenly had a bunch of shit to talk about but I realised I can’t really shitpost before talking about the new year because that would be a real debbie-downer way to start 2018 off. So, here I am, telling you that NEW YEAR NEW ME, except not really because I started doing all this in about November last year. You know why? Because I’m a stubborn mule and I didn’t want to say I changed on January 1st.
But anyway, I found these big ass notebooks on the clearance shelf in WHSmith and it really inspired me to get my shit together, especially because, being the hoarder I am, I bought two and had to justify doing so. The first post I wrote was, of course, my new years resolutions – which are different from my 2018 goals, so watch this space. The good thing about these resolutions is that, ignoring the last one, they can be taken on board by pretty much anyone. Hope you consider these cos I’m on the path to complete wellness and hope you can join me on this wild ride xxxxxxxxxx
Right so I was actually gonna write another ginormous shitpost but I didn’t know if that’d be a good idea, so I wrote this instead. Not as ~juicy~ (I hate that idiot word too), but PROBABLY MORE USEFUL. I dunno, maybe you enjoy reading about me being a crybaby? Let me know x
Anyway. You know what I love doing? Helping people when I’m trying to sort my own shit out. Need an ego boost? I’m here, you fucking beautiful non-snowflake. Need a pep talk? I’m your man, let’s get your shit together. Think you’re being a cunt? You probably are, let’s figure out what you’re doing wrong.
I thought about telling tell you my own end of year goals, but who cares about me, right??? Instead, I’ve used my time to SELFLESSLY compile a list that you, yes you personally, should make your end of year goals. Gawd, the things I do for this shitty ass blog.
There’s basically just a month and a half left of 2017. Gasp. Yes, I know, time is a man made concept. ‘New year new me’ is some bullshit. But I think we can all agree that there is a certain catharsis that comes with the end of a year, with a brand new calendar.
Without further ado.
Welcome to my night time, coffee-fuelled shit talking post. I haven’t done one of these in a while, but if you’re new to my blog, know that these are probably the most honest and raw posts I’ll ever write. That’s why they’re rare. Sometimes it’s in the form of poetry, other times, like now, it’s just word vomit. I don’t edit these. It’s the time where I’m wired but also tired, and when I’m listening to my night time songs.
One weird thing I’ve been called is ‘strong’. Strong because I can let things go, strong because I can stand by my beliefs, strong because I don’t fall for every guy that talks to me. I don’t know. I don’t know if I like being called strong, because there are certain expectations that come with that label. Am I allowed to cry? Am I allowed to fight for a guy who doesn’t give a shit? Am I allowed to have panic attacks? Am I allowed to be too nervous to walk into a crowded place sometimes?
Because I do all of those things too. And sometimes, that label gets in the way.