Because Nobody Else Is Going To Help Me Find My Way.
And Dear Sweet Jesus Christ, I Am Just So Lost.
(I know, I know. I desperately want to grow up, but I really just don’t seem to know how).
(All my troubles seemed… to be up my nose and catching in my throat and reverberating around the suffocating emptiness in my head… Hi There, can I help? Yeah, of course, I just need to go and fetch more ______ from the back, won’t be a second…)
Yesterday was kind of a sucky day.
But there’s a really goofy smile in there nonetheless.
I woke up to a not-so-good morning text from someone whose emotional bullshit I would rather not have to face right now, thanks. Yes, I am a hypocrite; nobody does emotional bullshit like I do, at times. However, this person was categorically not there for me the last time that happened, and for once I’ve decided that that actually matters to me. Cry on someone else’s shoulder, mine hurts. (Oh yeah – right arm feeling distinctly weird after an incident at work the day before, which I won’t go into the details of because *cringe*).
My dad (for a dumb ass reason I won’t go into, but let’s just say it wasn’t my fault – and weirdly, this time I don’t think I would take the guilt so nobody else had to have it) spent all day in hospital having an operation which seemed to have caused him a whole new problem by the time he came round. Apparently there was a lot of waiting and a lot of being passed along from doctor to increasingly-less-well-informed doctor, involved. In addition to being mostly clueless, it seemed there just weren’t enough of them in the place to go around – hence why, I suppose. And why none of them appeared to give a damn and why he was eventually sent home in agony and pretty clueless about the whole situation himself, at about 11pm.
I won’t bad-mouth the NHS, but I would say that it’s still a fucking fantastic plan to never ever ever get ill, and I really hope my auntie makes a speedy recovery too, from her doctor’s mistake in prescribing her medication she had a known allergy to, plus whatever was originally wrong with her.
Now, I don’t know very much about all this because I was at work. There I was one of a team consisting of, on average over the 8 hours of my shift, 3 people. Ordinarily this would be mildly frustrating. Yesterday, for once in the place’s life there were a fair few customers kicking about. A fair few of those customers wanted things from the deli counter, hot food counter and/or wanted pizzas making up. Cue my responsibility. I won’t go into the duller details, but let’s just say I feel like I deserve a medal for managing to keep everybody happy whilst (noticeably) shaking from hunger – I’d had lunch pretty early in the day and didn’t get a break until 6pm, and have this thing where if I don’t eat enough I shut down – and then leaving the place, on time, in the kind of sparkly-clean state that makes everyone working the next morning think I have actual OCD or something.
So that wasn’t fun. Apart from the bit where I was maniacally trying to get the scary bloke’s pizzas made and cooked in time for his return (following a pretty massive distraction involving a wedding cake made of cheese… yes, you read that right) and a lady approached the nearby salad bar with an adorable, very smiley baby in her trolley. To cut a short story shorter; goofy grin.
You may wonder why I include this in ‘sucky’, but I was also contacted yesterday regarding a potential interview next week.
I concluded my day with 14 hours’ sleep, from which I woke this morning feeling… not really all that great but – dare I say it – a fair bit better than I have these past few days… weeks. Maybe that’s just my fake problems paling into insignificance in the face of other people’s proper ones, in which case it’s not really a good thing at all.
Anyway, wish me luck because today I’m braving some motorways to drive myself and two friends to somewhere relatively far away for the sake of another friend’s birthday. I can’t really afford this, but ages ago I said I would so now I have to.
Because my Mum said so.
She said he reminds her of me.
And there’s a cat in one of his videos.
In other news, I have eaten far too many M&Ms today. I have not written a sufficient number of words of essay, and am consequently feeling like a bit of a failure. I have appeared retarded in the library due to my Ribena carton not having a straw. (I hope you enjoy the image that brings to mind as much as I enjoyed the Ribena). I have pondered the meaning of life, the universe and everything a fair amount. And I have just received some quality advice from a mug:
Referring to ‘Lock your door… every time’, mostly. I mean… Duh.
I like to live life on the edge. I think I will continue to only lock my door sometimes. You gonna stop me, mug?
I repeat; it’s been a less than satisfying day.
*Because sometimes, the right words just aren’t there.
Things as I see them at this precise moment in time can be pretty well summed up thusly:
I care more than I should about things that I probably shouldn’t even know about. This is what I always do and never wanted to ever do again after the last time. This makes me angry, which makes me antisocial and impossible to deal with. This means that Apple Strudel has a very clean tank complete with new pearly glass stones, and it also means that I am finding myself utterly unable to focus for any length of time in order to write the article that I was supposed to have written on Tuesday or Wednesday, (failed miserably due to Migraine) or to do any reading for my essays.
Because I have little more of any substance to say for myself, here is a minor rant:
Today when I was at work, a woman came to the deli counter with a little girl who looked probably around six or seven years old. The first thing that irritated me in all this was the fact that the woman was wearing fierce fake nails, heavy makeup, high heels and fancy clothes – for grocery shopping. The little girl was dressed normally (thank god); perhaps the mother had just been/had to go soon to some kind of dressy occasion? I don’t know, but I can hope. The second thing that irritated me was that all the time as the woman was telling me which and how much (etc etc) ham she wanted, the little girl was repeatedly trying to get her attention and being completely ignored. As I was putting the stuff on the scales, the girl was watching and trying to read out the weight of it and everything else that she could see on the screen; mother continuing to ignore.
I left the stuff on there long enough for her to read it all out to me, (-One hundred and forty-eight… erm, 148 what? –Grams. 148 grams. *encouraging smile*-One Pound Seventy-Four? –Yep, that’s right-) before wrapping it up and handing it over to the mother. Having said individual goodbyes to both, I watched mother strutting away with her nose in the air, tugging daughter impatiently behind her and still ignoring her intently. (‘Mummy, look at this, mummy. Mummy, look…’).
Mummy. Fucking pay attention to your child, you self-absorbed, vile bitch. You brought her into this world, stop treating her like she has no right to be in it. She’s adorable, she’s intelligent and she’s talking to you; just answer her, for Christ’s sake.
I read somewhere very recently that the parents who listen are the parents whose children keep talking. The children who keep talking are the children who grow up intelligent, confident, emotionally mature and happy. I can believe this.
I’m not saying I know everything (or even anything, for that matter) about parenting, but it just breaks my heart seeing people bringing up children when they probably shouldn’t even be allowed to own a pet. If you spend more time putting on your eyeshadow than you do listening to what your daughter wants to tell you then clearly you have your priorities hideously wrong, and no matter how middle class you are you just should not have children.
On a lighter note… Penguin Cafe Orchestra, folks. : )
Sorry. Happy weekend to y’all.
Everything, was everything, but baby it’s the last show.
Everything, could be everything, But it’s time to say goodbye so,
Get your last fix, and your last hit, Grab your old girl with her new tricks,
Honey yeah, it’s no surprise, that I got lost,
In your brown eyes.
(Lady GaGa, Brown Eyes)
[I would like to know why it is that there is always someone basically worse, who wins simply because they got there first].
I would love to be writing here about how I jumped out of a plane yesterday and it was AWESOME. Unfortunately it rained all day so we couldn’t skydive. Everyone pray for blue skies on March 18th for me please. ;)
As for smiles…
1) Yesterday my sister Kelly and I were attempting a 3,000 piece puzzle of a forest scene featuring European wildlife. On the back of the box were listed, in every language imaginable, the featured animals and birds. Let’s just say that Kelly can be hilariously daft at times, and a song thrush will forever more be known to me as a ‘Singdrossel’.
2) Here is my favourite of the old family photos that I had a sift through while home:
(My Dad and my two brothers in… 1996?)
*Not the 2003 album by Finnish pop-rock band The Rasmus. Although ‘In the Shadows’ will always be a classic and I always wanted to wear feathers in my hair like their lead singer did. I was such a cool kid. *puts on that song and sings along for old times’ sake*
Ok so I’m reducing, reusing and recycling, here. I wrote this a fair while ago and put it on DeviantArt, where pretty much nobody has, and nobody will, ever read it. I am seriously considering deleting my account – hence going through all my stuff on there. I have outgrown it. I made that page when I was 15(?) and following in the footsteps of a friend (or two). I’ve kept it this long because there are memories there, I guess… but now I’ve decided it’s going. I’ve also decided that I’m NOT giving you that link. Sorry.
Anyway, the point is that I’ve recently taken to passive-aggressively writing letters to people who have inspired strong feelings in me. Y’know, whenever I’ve been unable for whatever reason to say all the things I’d like to say to them. The following was the easiest, and the most therapeutic.
To Jungle Boy,
I would say something like, ‘Why Jungle Boy? You’re 25 years old…’
But you seem so very childish in your outlook, based on everything that you’ve shared so far, that it fits. You are just a boy.
You seem to think you know what you need, and don’t understand why it isn’t all just being dropped at your feet. I think if you could just grow the hell up, everything else might start to fall into place.
You go to great lengths to show how depressed you are. You make that crystal clear in every single word you write. You make it even clearer in the ones you don’t write. You write about how you bought a new jacket today, or went to a gig last night, but it’s always really about the way you say it. About how empty you feel, how little meaning anything that happens in your life holds for you, how nothing ever makes you feel good.
This is mainly because you went to university and are 25 years old and clearly carry with you the leftovers of a high opinion of yourself, yet you work in Morrisons and live with your parents.
I can see how that must grind, except you don’t seem to have tried all that hard to change anything. (Oui, J’accuse).
You’re far from alone in the situation you’re in, but not everyone who’s fallen in the same way refuses so stubbornly to pick themselves up. Most of them are at least prepared to look up. And smile, now and then.
You’re angry with your father for making you apply for, and not simply handing to you, a job at the office where he works. You accuse him of ‘leaving you to drown in a Nile of shit’. Is it his fault that that’s where you feel that you are right now? He probably earned his success. Worked for it, struggled for it, suffered for it. By himself. Just because he may be in a position to hand to you on a plate what he worked hard for, why should he? If you were as worthy as you seem to think you are, you’d get yourself there. Maybe you will, and Good Luck. Although your lack of attention to detail, which I’m inferring from the way that you don’t always spell everything right – in a blog, for god’s sake – leads me to think that you probably won’t try hard enough and all the luck in the world won’t help.
(By the way; Your = belonging to you. You’re = you are. DEFINITELY <– is spelt like that. De-finite-ly).
On a side note: If you stopped wallowing in whatever the snivelling, petulant child equivalent of self-pity is, just for a second, you’d realise that from some people’s point of view you’re fucking lucky.
I don’t know this for a fact, but I suspect that you’re an only child. I’m sure you are. You certainly talk, and seem to act, like the stereotypical spoilt brat. You’re the classic believer in ‘The World Owes Me A Living,’ throwing your toys out of the pram because they’re not the exact ones you wanted. While it’s not your fault that you never had a sibling to share with, I just can’t understand how you can be so utterly incapable of loving anyone, or even caring for anyone, except yourself. The way you talk it’s as though other people – even the ones you call friends – are to be derided, sneered at, used as examples of ‘worse than myself’.
You write without emotion, without feeling, without… anything. I haven’t actually met you so I can’t be sure, but if this is how you are with people in real life then there’s no wonder so few of them want to be around you. I was curious to see if there was a ‘real you’ beneath this incredibly hostile front. You were the same to me behind the scenes – me with my efforts to show an interest in your life, to be empathetic and yet optimistic in the face of your insufferable nihilism, to inspire some sort of reaction from you – as you are to the world at large. Cold, blank, unresponsive. Nothing to offer to anyone and nothing to gain from anyone. Just a guy who works, (and hates it) goes out and buys clothes, (and hates it) goes out and drinks and dances with friends, (and hates it) occasionally gets laid after one such night out (and hates it). A guy who finds a sickening amount of negative things to dwell on in absolutely everything that happens to him, even a holiday abroad with a best friend.
I mean, fair enough you answered my questions – but only barely. You were only being what you thought could be taken as polite. You asked me some questions in return, but it was clear that you didn’t care for the answers.
You objectify women – myself and ‘the Romanian girl’ being the only almost-exceptions. And only, I suspect, because you haven’t met either of us in real life. By the way, why doesn’t the Romanian girl deserve a name? Or if you’re protecting her privacy, at least a better moniker than the one you give her.
But then I suppose you do refer to your ex as ‘The C**t’ (see, I couldn’t even say it, and I’m not even saying anything out loud) and to one of your closer female friends as ‘The Moomin’; Romanian girl seems almost affectionate by comparison.
I’d say something about how broken this shows you up to be, but I think you’d revel in that. You want to be broken because you think it’s what you’re good at. You’re presumably convinced you could never be as good at anything else, so why try. Right?
Whether you need it or not, you don’t want help. If someone throws you a lifeline you either pretend not to see it and wait until it goes away, or you choke them with it. You like drowning in your Nile of shit.
You will probably never see this. I really wish I could say it all to your face, but that was never going to be an option. It would be an interesting conversation to have over unethical, unsatisfying coffee though. Branded non-coffee that I might end up just pouring over your head if you became too infuriating (being as I am one of those lower life forms who are capable of both fury and impulse).
If you really wanted to be saved, I think everything I just said would be good for you to hear. You think you’re better than everyone else because you can see through all the superficial crap that makes them happy. You’re missing the point. Which is that They’re Happy.
What the Hell are you?
And if by some bizarre twist of reality you actually just read all of this, feel free to prove me wrong and respond. I’ll be very surprised to find that you’ve been keeping an eye on me here, though. I read your blog and you know I do, but why on earth would you want to read things that I write?
So there you go, folks. Don’t ever get to me; I might just write a nasty letter for you not to read once you’re gone.
Eh, that was all a little bit emo. Smiles, smiles…
Hmm. I was at work this morning (the deli counter, with two women my mum’s age…) and for some reason this came into my head:
Let’s just say that when this happened I didn’t exactly *not* sing it out loud.