I sat down to start this post in my usual fashion; with misery, cynicism, and a little self-loathing. But then I remembered that negativity begets negativity, and the last thing I need is another reason to beat myself up. So, I’ve picked the next closest thing: honesty.
I took yet another break from writing in general. People have told me and continue to tell me they love my blog posts, my copy, my short stories — whatever it may be — but I just… don’t believe them. Imposter syndrome, I believe they call it. Feelings of inadequacy that block us from ever proving to ourselves that we are better than we think we are. It’s a vicious cycle that I often struggle to break out of.
We create art to express ourselves and resonate with people, so when they tell us they want to see us or hear us, why can’t we deliver? Why do we feel like frauds in our field –surely I’m not meant to be in this club? You’ll find that this club is filled almost exclusively with people who are, in fact, very good at what they do. Conversely, there are a lot of people who produce ridiculously sub-par work, but because they believe they can get to the top with it, they soar. Right to the very top. Read more
‘Explain this to me. What the fuck happened?’
It’s 03:32am and we’re doing sixty down a forty. The roads are mostly empty, but I know this means we’ll be hearing police sirens any second now, and I don’t know how shady it’ll look when they open the door of a blacked out A3 to see two brown twenty-somethings with blood on the passenger seat. But I don’t tell Adam about the last part, because I want him to make it to the hospital alive without flipping the car.
I wouldn’t normally see a doctor for a cut, but I haven’t been able to move my hand for a while without fear of painting his seats red. I can’t feel my arm anymore and I think my fingers are about to fall off.
‘I don’t know, man,’ I sigh, too exhausted to even try to think about what happened. These days I just give myself a migraine trying to fill in the gaps; I can’t remember something I wasn’t there for. But I saw the marks on her neck, and what I do know is I did it again. I don’t know what else happened; we made up and fell asleep, we had sex, I think. She fell asleep again. I stayed up. Everything was fine. Then there was blood.
The lights outside are a blur.
Adam quickly looks down at the blood-soaked cloth I’m holding against my left palm, and his eyes keep darting to his seats, occasionally checking that I haven’t spilled any. I have.
‘Why the fuck…’ he mutters under his breath as he pushes his foot down on the accelerator, the engine growling. Read more
Earlier. Around 8pm.
‘Please, just fucking let me go,’ she said slowly, trembling, and making sure I heard every single word.
I didn’t want her to go and she knew it wasn’t me, I just wanted to calm her down. I – whoever that was – probably hurt her, but that wasn’t me. It was not me.
Still, she could’ve screamed. She could have shouted, banged on the walls so people heard her; she knew how thin these walls were. She could have had someone running to rescue the damsel in distress, but she didn’t want to be saved. Because she enjoyed this. She would always come back to me because she loves me. I barricaded the door and that was the last thing I remembered when I was there.
‘Please,’ I heard her whimpering. I blinked and I was no longer by the front door; I looked down and saw myself holding her against the wall by the bathroom, my hand wrapped around her throat. Her eyes were bloodshot and her face looked slightly swollen. Her body was stiff and unmoving, the way it is when you’ve given up fighting and you’re bracing yourself for the worst. It took me four seconds to register what my hands were doing and I immediately removed them from her neck, allowing her to scurry to the corner of the bed.
‘Fuck,’ I whispered, looking down at my hands.
‘Tell me what just happened, what did I do to you?’
Number one: calling yourself a blogger when you only write blog posts once every few months haha fuck those guys haha.
Anyway, I feel like I have to end 2018 with a post in my true fashion. By telling you about things that get on my tits and asking you to stop doing them. And nobody is going to listen anyway, so watch this space for the exact same post, word for word, in 12 months. There’s a lot of swearing in this one, hold tight.
Disclaimer: when I say ‘we’ or ‘us’ or ‘our’ throughout this post, I don’t mean myself because, of course, I’m not a fucking idiot. I mean u man.
1] Filming our generosity Read more
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.
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.