Monday, May 01, 2017

unlucky streak?

It feels like everything is going wrong lately and no matter what I do, I can't win. Or maybe I just have a chip on my shoulder? Maybe I'm still hung up on the fact that I'm not conventionally attractive? But I am trying so goddamn fucking hard to be what I'm supposed to be and it's still not working. Or maybe that's just my imagination? It doesn't matter because, either way, I lose. 

And after all this time, am I really still doing the whole passive-aggressive blogging thing? It's literally been ten years ... What a terrifying thought. But writing (or blogging or venting or whining to the only entity I can) feels good and necessary. I feel lonely and isolated. Sometimes I feel independent and strong. But mostly I just want to tell someone about my weird dreams in the morning. The internet's good, but I dunno if it's that good.

Sunday, November 20, 2016

5:20 am

When the anxiety is too much and you're dressed and made up for the day by 5:20 am. And you don't need to leave the house 'til 7.

Wow, I haven't blogged in forever. I'm rusty. And I'm only writing because I don't know what else to do with my stupid thoughts.

I haven't been drinking in two months, and it's been no harm. I drank in Oman for my birthday and ended up bawling my eyes out because I was convinced that I was the ugliest person in the world. (Even I'm bored with that routine now.) It's been a good two months. I've drank some wine since then, but I've been far from drunk. I love not drinking. I wake up every morning with some semblance of dignity and some sort of grasp on my life. But Thursday night I felt obliged to go out for my friend's birthday. I wish I could blame alcohol for my dickish behaviour but that began before I even touched a drop. I had been pretty excited for this night out with my pals, but that quickly changed when, in the process of getting dressed, I realised once again that I was a tremendously ugly individual. So, with that conviction, I joined my friend in her apartment before going out. But I was grumpy and negative and bitter. And so, when she told me to (basically) get over it, I responded by childishly leaving her apartment to come and stew in my own for twenty minutes.

When I did rejoin the group, I apologised to my friend, but it must have been a very half-assed apology because it didn't solve anything, and I felt the tension for the rest of the night. Despite my initial grumpiness, I did end up having a nice time at the brunch, and got chatting to my other friend's boyfriend's friend, and we really hit it off. Having drank upwards of five glasses of wine, I decided to accompany those three to another bar afterwards. I vaguely remember being in the taxi with them, and my memory of arriving at the bar is even foggier. I had sporadic memories of hanging out with some Indian or Pakistani guy and eventually escaping to get a taxi home by myself. Complete with McDonald's. When I woke up on Friday morning, I appeared reasonably intact. Except I had a grazed knee and a long cut on my shin. And an ache in my neck. And stabbing pains in my vagina. And (I didn't discover until Saturday) a love bite on my neck. What the fuck happened?

I have been gripped by fear and anxiety all weekend. Not only did I seriously piss off my good friend (and in probably more ways than I even remember), I also came home with a myriad of unexplained ailments, which is terrifying. This is exactly why I don't drink, and why I won't be drinking again for a long, long time. In fact, my 2017 new year's resolution might just be to stop drinking for a year ...

On Friday, the fear was expected, if unwelcome. I did what I could to get through the day, including changing my bedsheets and having a shower. I texted my friend. No reply. That's okay, she's still mad, that's expected. Saturday dawned with that same anxiety. I tried my best. I hoovered, I made my bed, I prepared my lunch for the week, I got dressed, I looked up new jobs for next year, I even left the house. I went to a coffee shop and corrected some exams and daydreamed. I joined a gym. I cooked a new meal. I showered. I messaged my friend again. Still no reply. Okay. I went to bed early. And then I woke up at 3:30 am after a sweaty, fitful sleep and at 4 am I decided to just get up and be done with it. So I'm here now at 6 am, dressed and looking reasonably presentable - with my hair down to hide the hickey. Radiohead is playing. I'm scared of seeing my friend at work. God almighty, I even have heartburn.

What's my strategy? Act like nothing happened? Low lie and wait for her to come to me (pray that she comes to me)? Early morning thoughts: I am not a good person.

Friday, June 05, 2015

it is not unnatural.

Here's the thing: it has taken me a very long time to realise that it is okay to want to eventually find a boyfriend/partner/whatever and settle down. I spent so many years thinking it was an inherent weakness to want someone. Last year, a psychiatrist assured me that actually it is okay, that most people want that. And now I find myself arguing that point to my own mother. I guess she's never wanted that or, if she has, has long since given up on the idea. But I am 23 and a romantic and a sexually (in)active adult and, yes, a long-term boyfriend or even husband is something that I want for myself. I know that it's something many of my friends want also. And that's not weird. That's normal. I've finally accepted that.

At the moment, I'm really struggling with my sense of self. Who the fuck am I? Is this what I want for my life? Lately (read: for the last twelve months), I have felt like the ugliest person in the world and that feeling was exacerbated when I moved to the UAE last August. Last August, I still wore bright colours but by December I was rocking the goth look almost exclusively. But not even in a cool way. More in a dowdy middle-aged loner type of way. But, with all due respect to dowdy middle-aged loners, that's not who I am. At least, it's not who I want to be. And it's just gotten worse and worse.

In an ideal world, what a parent wants for their child is happiness, in whatever format. I've always felt like, for my family, money and appearance was most important. Maybe everyone feels like that. I dunno. Both of those things are important to me too. But I have lived here for 12 months and I am still broke. Yes, I've done a couple of cool things and I've bought a couple of cool things but ultimately I have practically no social life and other that my Urban Decay Electric palette which I rarely use, I have nothing to show for the last ten months of my life. And fuck that shit.

I'm not happy here. I'm not happy at home. I think I want to get a teaching qualification because I think it would make me happy and provide me with a vocation and a stable career but would it actually make me happy? I had a brainwave the other day (rare, lately) and thought that maybe what I wanna do is work for an LGBT activist organisation and live in Dublin or Cork or England or some other western place.  Don't get me wrong, I have a lot of love for the Arab countries. I am fascinated by the language, the culture, the religion. But I can't see myself living here forever. I'm too alt for the Las Vegas of the Middle East.

I'll paint you a picture of my dream life right now. (Honestly, I'm happy to have even thought of something that I want to do. Recently I've felt so meh about my life, thinking that maybe nothing would make me happy, that I have no dream. It feels delicious to have finally found something that I'm passionate about.) In college, I spent two semesters working with the LGBT society as public relations officer and I loved it. I got to spend time with interesting, passionate people, I got to write, and I got to employ some of the skills my degree apparently provided me with. Feminism and LGBTQ issues are something I have felt strongly about for so many years and the other day it finally hit me that that is where my passion lies. I thought there was something wrong with me for not having a dream job but there it is right there. My only concern is that if I did find a suitable job in that area, it wouldn't pay very well and I've lived a pov life too long. I want nice things. I dunno.

What I also want is a partner. Someone I love and who loves me. My mother said, "I thought you wanted more from your life than that." At the moment, I'm working in a place that doesn't offer a whole lot of job satisfaction, in a country that doesn't offer a whole lot of anything except poor human rights, bad water supply and unbearable fifty degree heat. Is this the "more" my mother was referring to? It's not unnatural to want someone. But I know I will not find someone here. And that's the point.

For the last two days, I've been toying with the idea of just moving home. I guess I'd still be me at home though. I know that certain people would hate to see me return home because for them it would indicate failure on my part. And I know that certain people would love to see me return because for them it would indicate failure on my part. Which basically means that I would be as miserable at home as I am here.

Another major problem is that, thanks to my darling brother, I have a substantial debt to pay. Even with my steady income here, I'll struggle to pay it but I have a better chance of doing it here than at home. Of course, when it is paid, I will happily tell my brother to go fuck himself. At that will be a proud moment.

I'm acting as though I'm in two minds about coming back here after summer vacation but I know I'll return. Honestly, right now I don't even want to go home because I know that I don't have anyone's support in what I do. I lose either way.

The only upshot is ... Actually, I just realised that there is no upshot. Oh well.

Thursday, June 04, 2015

piece of shit.

I am literally lying in bed right now crying my eyes out because I fucking hate this country. It has no redeeming qualities whatsoever. If you want to live in a country where the people are rude and nothing - not grocery shopping, not paying your phone bill - is straight-forward, then come here.

What the fuck am I doing here in a country where I don't feel like myself and where I think most of the people are living, breathing pieces of shit? I am not happy.

Maybe I'm just tired. Or maybe I've lived here for almost a year and I'm still fucking broke. Fuck my life. Fuck this country. I want to go home. Now.

goth life.

Who the fuck am I these days? I have never before in my life been the type of person who veers towards the black clothes in the shop. So why now? Why is half my wardrobe a black abyss? I'm hiding. I'm trying to make myself invisible. A spy. A funeral guest. It's not me and it never has been. Why now? The identity crisis. I need help. I need to change. I'm not sure who I am anymore but I know that I am denying a certain part of my identity - the part that is drawn to obnoxious colours, tacky clothes and MAKING A STATEMENT. But what am I so scared of? I mean, it's not as if the goth look is doing me any favours. In this heat, with this level of sweat, I still look fucking disgusting. So what's the point?

I need to stop eating shit food, I need to exercise, and I need to wear whatever the fuck I want to wear.

I also need to write more.

Saturday, May 02, 2015

i'm thinking about a brand new hope.

It's been five months since I've written anything other than whiny scribbling in my journal. But here I am. Feeling sorry for myself. Ready to postulate the validity of my feelings to the internet at large. (Fun fact: no one reads me anymore.) I'm listening to Green Day and I'm hungover and I want to punch myself in the face five thousand times. This is why I don't really drink anymore. I'm a hot mess. And what was the benefit? I guess I talked to some people I might not otherwise have gotten a chance to talk to but I could just make more of an effort to talk to them sober. Because no amount of talking is worth this. I'm fucked up, man. But I'm here. And I wanna be here more. I wanna be less scared of my feelings and my ambitions and my dreams.

Maybe I'll never achieve everything - or even anything - that I want to do but it's important to at least admit your dreams, right? Why am I so ashamed of what I want? I can't even fucking think straight.

Fuck cider and fuck vodka and fuck fuckboys.

Monday, December 08, 2014

hating lyf bcuz boys don't luv me.

School wasn't awful today. Yay. It was pretty standard, nothing special. I rushed to get a grade 6 lesson plan written so that I could go to the Irish Village (pub) in Dubai for the turning on of the Christmas tree. Got the lesson plan done and went for a nap after school so that I'd be fresh for Dubai but of course that didn't happen: I woke up groggy and cranky. What's new? But I put on some make-up, a pair of shorts and that Such Christmas t-shirt I have since last year. And off I went. I had a pint and hated life because a boy doesn't love me. But me and Brigid had such lovely chats so all is well. :)

I'm here in bed at the moment with all my make-up still in place and half-typing up that lesson plan that has to be emailed to Scott before morning. It's 11 pm. Ugh.

I set up a bank account yesterday and applied for a credit card. I'd love to have the credit card before I go home for Christmas but that probably won't happen. Ah well. School needs my bank account details soon otherwise I won't get paid at all. Fine, except I don't have the details yet. The bank person will email on my IBAN number as soon as he has it, apparently. And then dolla dolla bills. And as of now only 12 days, 9 hours and 5 minutes until I land in Dublin airport on December 21. :)

In the meantime, lots of early mornings and English lessons. And shouting abuse and eight year olds. Cool.

x

Sunday, December 07, 2014

non-catatonic.

Today was my first day back at work/school after five days off. I had the worst sleep ever last night: I slept peacefully from 10 pm to midnight and then I was awake for at least two hours sweating and rolling around and then my alarm went off at 5:30 am. Excellent. School wasn't too bad though. I was sort of unprepared though and had zero clue of what I was doing in grade 6. But it worked out in the end. I got my Emirates ID today as well which meant that I was finally able to open a bank account. After school I stayed around in my grade 4 classroom and did some planning for the next two weeks (after which I'll be flying home to lovely √Čire!). I got a taxi home and had a quick Google of local banks. I ended up going with Emirates NBD which is in the nearest mall - Al Nasserya. It's handy because I know exactly where it is and I could easily walk there if I had to. I signed up for a credit card along with a current account but it's unlikely I'll have the credit card before I go home for Christmas, which is annoying because dolla dolla bills. Ah well. After the bank, I popped into Carrefour supermarket and got some random kitchen utensils, a candle, tissues and conditioner. Then I got a sneaky McDonald's. Yuck. It's weird because I haven't even been craving McDonald's lately - probably because it's so ubiquitous - and yet I went and ate far too fucking much of it anyway. Now I'm at home drinking a bottle of cider and contemplating doing lesson plans of some description. I might ring my mother as well. Miss that lady.

Ring now I don't feel as catatonically depressed as I normally do. Win.

Friday, July 11, 2014

exercises in loving thyself, lady.

Yesterday I did things to make me feel good:

  • Went for a little walk
  • Had a nice shower (shaved my underarms, scrubbed my hair with a shampoo/baking soda mix, exfoliated, and used lovely new deodorant)
  • Did my hair in cute milkmaid braids
  • Wore real people clothes as opposed to the tracksuit/hoodie combo I've been rocking almost exclusively for the past two months
  • Read some Harry Potter
  • Rejoined Weight Watchers(!) and discovered that instead of gaining back all the weight I'd lost, which I fully anticipated, I actually lost a pound, meaning I don't have to start all over again. I'm looking forward to getting back on track now. And only three more pounds to lose before I hit my next milestone!

Today I nursed a slight hangover and finally started watching the first series of Orange is the New Black (so far so good!). Tomorrow I plan on exercising and writing and reading and doing other fun stuff for me. I’m starting to feel a little more control of my feelings. Hooray!

(Transformers is on telly now. I am nostalgic for the days when Shia LaBeouf seemed relatively normal.)

(The coat I’m wearing in the photo above makes me feel like a trainspotter.)

Tuesday, July 08, 2014

sad gurrls w/ perfect brows + zero megapixels.

Today I met with my new psychologist/counsellor for the first time. She seems really lovely and I'm really happy and excited about getting to share my madness with her(!). When I sat down in her office I started crying instantly. I think I had been so psyched(!) all morning at the opportunity to talk about my feelings and stuff that they were just bubbling beneath the surface and erupted when the pressure became too much. I bawled my eyes out for an hour but I think I feel good. I mean, my psychologist was so lovely and so encouraging and so hopeful. And she's made me hopeful. But I'm sad that I'll only get to see her a couple of times before I move away (13th August, holla!). She gave me some homework to do before I see her again next week: I have to do a little of something that makes me feel good, like reading or going for a walk, and I have to fill in a mood/activity chart that attempts to identify how my mood correlates to my level of activity (which probably seems obvious because endorphins but it also includes activities like talking to friends or writing or whatever). I'm nervous and excited and happy at the thoughts of finally addressing the thoughts and behaviours that have been making me miserable for so fucking long. I'm a work in progress.

Today I also took my mother to her eye test appointment, ate Subway, ate two chocolate éclairs(!), finished season 8 of The Office and started re-watching The Mindy Project. (Words cannot express how much I love Mindy Kaling.) As well as all those fun activities, I put on make-up for no reason at all (a first for me) and managed to achieve a perfect eye liner flick (another miraculous first). I'm now drinking Diet Coke (full blown addiction) and ogling my one tru luv (MK).

Bad writing is my best friend.

(I want to start wearing more black.)

Monday, July 07, 2014

love/sad/instagram.

For a long time I've felt as though being attracted to someone or wanting to be in a relationship with someone is a sign of weakness. I guess there are probably a couple of different reasons for that warped view of love. Maybe it's the failed adolescent- and college-relationships. Maybe it's a defence/offence mechanism: stay away from me and neither of us will get hurt. Maybe it's the fact that more than one boy, after reading my blog, has accused me, in a tone of slight revulsion, of needing a boyfriend. 

I cried in the psychiatrist's office a couple of weeks ago and among my many confessions was the fact that I am embarrassed about wanting a relationship, wanting to be liked, wanting to be loved. I'm a feminist and I want to be a self-sufficient, modern woman. And it's not as though the offers are rolling in these days. So it helps to pretend that I don't want love anyway. Except lately, amid all my other anxieties, I've developed a strong conviction that I will never find anyone to spend (at least part of) my life with. I'll be alone forever. And I hate myself for worrying about that kind of thing. If that's my biggest fear in life, what does that say about me? I'm defined by my relationships with boys? I'm validated by these relationships? I want to accept myself for who I am. I want to not need another person to do that for me. But I love love. And I love sharing my bed and my thoughts and my life with another person. And I'm so ashamed of that. (All these conflicting feelings!) But the psychiatrist said, “It's okay to want those things, Emma.” And that really fucking helped.

I've been pretty depressed for the past couple of months and my self-esteem is at an all time low. I'm moving to a different country (and time zone and climate) in five weeks. A relationship will not blossom this week or next week or any time soon. And I don't need it to. What I need is self-love. But I don't love anyone right now, least of all myself. I don't even fancy anyone. (And I think that's a first.) In fact, lately I hate the whole wide world. There's very few people who have escaped my criticism in the past few weeks. I suspect that all my self-hatred is leaking out into the atmosphere and attaching itself, parasitic, to the closest organism (i.e. my friends and family). So now my life is void of love. (And yet love is a shout into the void?)

I have my first appointment appointment with a new psychologist tomorrow and while I don't expect to achieve much in the hour-long session, I hope it helps to talk. I think it will. Lately I feel like no one listens when I talk. Maybe it's mostly my imagination but, regardless, it feels awful. I am irrelevant, unimportant, worthless. Cool. I guess blogging is good and cathartic because it's uninterrupted. Flow.

I recently finished the 100 Happy Days challenge on Instagram. It was a challenge. I started a couple of weeks before I finished college when my stress levels were at an all time high. I continued into the summer when my depression was at an all time high. How do you find happiness among all that misery? My photo feed consisted mainly of my two year old nephew, tasty food, painted nails, and one or two pictures of my friends. Usually the happy moments were fleeting – just long enough to make it to Instagram. I guess it's easy to construct a good life. Maybe my < 200 followers thought I was happy. Truly happy. (Is there such a thing?) Truthfully, spending time with my nephew, painting my nails and eating healthy meals does make me happy, but underneath it all I still actively dislike myself. And that's the clincher, right?

I spend my days watching The (US) Office and hating myself. Tomorrow will be different.  Maybe I won't watch The Office

Saturday, June 28, 2014

let's play a little game i like to call 'why does emma hate herself?'. five points to hufflepuff!

I wish I could capture in words the feeling I get when my room is tidy and it's night time and I'm clean and I'm doing something very simple like listening to music. It's good. It's calming. It's a soft yellow. But I rarely listen to music for music's sake. I'll listen to music for background noise while cleaning or cooking or exercising or blogging (!). But to do nothing but listen to music would allow my mind to wander freely and that's not ideal. I mean, my long term plan is to avoid thinking any meaningful thoughts for hopefully the rest of my life. My plan is to keep busy.

Which is why the first thing I do when I get up in the morning is open the windows, make my bed, hoover the floor, make breakfast and try to come up with a list of things to do for the day that will distract me from real life. At the moment, my weapons of mass distraction include occasional walks and hours spent watching The Office. But I'm open to other suggestions.

Lately I don't like being around other people (I feel like I've written that exact phrase a thousand times before): other people are so much better than I am and even being around people I like is a struggle. In fact, it's worse to be around people I like because it's much harder to resent them for being better than me. I'm jealous of my friends' lives/achievements/whatever but because they're my friends, I wouldn't begrudge them their happiness (not even in my head). The weird thing is my life kind of looks good on paper: I've just finished college with a good degree and good grades and I'm scheduled to emigrate in six weeks' time for a job with great career and travel opportunities. So what's the problem? Oh yeah. Me. That's right. I'm the problem. Help.

My low self-esteem isn't really based on any particular aspect of my appearance or personality. It seems to be just a general all-encompassing self-loathing that will manifest itself in a myriad of ways, depending on the day/alignment of the planets/who fucking knows. Right now I'm hideous. I'm repulsive. How could anyone even hold down the contents of their stomach while in my presence?

Of course, my self-esteem isn't improved by the fact that I'm stone cold poverty-stricken at the moment and I feel like such a fucking scab. My friends are generous and understanding but it's so embarrassing to be this poor – and to always have been. When I start my job in six weeks (and get my first pay cheque six weeks after that!), things will be different. And I'll just hate myself for some other reason. Self-loathing is so exciting – I wonder what will cause me to melt into an acidic pool of hatred today? Could be the fact that I weigh 180 lbs! Could be the fact that I haven't had any semblance of a romantic relationship in a whole year! Could be anything! Ah, the excitement.

I want to write/blog/demand attention more. Watch this space or something.

Wednesday, June 11, 2014

no validation for real life.

IMG_2366IMG_2449IMG_2456IMG_2496IMG_2505
I went to Clonmel last week to meet with a psychiatrist. For the past couple of months my mood has worsened and two weeks ago I cracked. I visited my GP and wept. He recommended I visit the Mental Health Services clinic to meet with a psychiatrist. I met with a lovely woman called Linda and a (presumably Indian) doctor called Dr Chandra. I find it hard to speak to doctors who are not Irish because they often don't understand the way I speak – my speech is peppered with “likes” and “ahms” and colloquialisms. Linda was well able to interpret my ramblings though. She was so lovely and I wanted her to hug me forever while I dripped snot all over her lovely clothes. But that didn't happen. I just sobbed by myself on my separate comfy chair. After more than a half an hour of sobbing and talking and answering those see-through questions which tried to decipher the cause of my dismay, Linda asked me to wait outside for ten to fifteen minutes while she and Dr Chandra discussed my tainted brain. Linda made me a cup of coffee and supplied me with a two year old copy of Look or some other women's magazine and I sat happily for a while in the clean bright waiting area.

When Linda eventually called me back into the assessment room, she and Dr Chandra explained that they didn't think I was clinically depressed but rather I was just miserable because of my long term issues with low self-esteem. They didn't see a need for Prozac and recommended that I meet with a psychologist for a couple of sessions before I move away in order to, I dunno, figure out why I hate myself so much. When I commented that I felt Prozac felt like a necessary crutch, they said it would then be up to my GP to decide whether to prescribe it. In other words, it won't do a whole lot for me since I have so many other underlying issues but it may have a sort of placebo effect. Sometimes that's enough.

I felt a bit shaken after the meeting and spent a while trying to figure out if it was bad news or good news. And I suppose it depends on how you look at it. In one way it seems as though I am the cause of all my problems, all my misery. A mysterious chemical imbalance cannot be blamed. This is my fault, all my own doing. There's no validation. On the other hand, the fact that it's not simply chemical means, arguably, that there is a cure. I would say that for real clinical depression, there is no cure – just a couple of mg of fluoxetine to keep the monsters at bay. In my case, dealing with my self-loathing will hopefully lift my misery. So there's a cure. An end in sight. I've known for quite a while that, clinical depression or not, I would make no progress without addressing the things that have been plaguing me for most of my life. Feelings of inadequacy, feelings of self-hatred. Tablets would only ever do much.

I suspect that at one point I was clinically depressed. I certainly exhibited the symptoms: low mood, over-sleeping, changes in appetite and concentration, moodiness. Now, however, it seems that I'm simply sad because I tell myself all day every day that I'm a terrible human being. That would make anyone sad. So I'm meeting with the psychologist in a week or two and hopefully I'll get in a couple of sessions before I move away. And I'll work hard at learning to like myself. Here's hoping.

In the meantime, I'm worried about exam results, debt and a lack of disposable income. Hurry up, real life. Wait – is this real life? No, this is the intermission between college life and real life. Another awkward phase of my life. But it's okay. Things will get better.

Saturday, May 31, 2014

acidity.

All the World

I went to the doctor today. I told him I'd been feeling depressed for a while now. I barely got the words out of my mouth before I started sobbing. I want to cry forever. I want to feel nothing. I don't know how I ever imagined depression as anything other than vile acid reflux. It's not beautiful. It's not interesting or endearing. I'm not the Virgin Suicides. I am not small and dainty and sad in the most romantic way. I am so miserable that I don't want to get up in the morning and my voice wilts into nothingness when I have to talk to people. This is not beautiful. This is agonising. I want a lobotomy.

I feel as though I truly will be miserable forever. It seems like such a waste of a life. I used to think that I was okay the way I was, that introversion and aversion to dancing were just personality quirks but I'm starting to think that Evana might be right: I would enjoy people and dancing and other happy things if I was happy in myself. I thought I was happy. I thought being alone was making me happy. And I suppose it was, in a way. At least when I'm alone my feelings are somewhat objective – they are the reality, they are the only truth. But when I'm around other people, I realise that this is not normal, I'm not normal. I can't relate to other people when I feel like this. I'm not interested in the things they have to say. I'm bored and I'm silently berating myself for being so fucking different. Why can't I be like them? Why aren't I interested in these things? Why do I look so different? Why am I so fat? Why am I so ugly? Why am I so stupid? Why am I so awful?

I know that my family, friends, doctor and counsellor would disagree with me on those points/questions, but the problem isn't that I am the worst person in the world, the problem is that I feel like I'm the worst person in the world. Everything feels so awful right now and I feel so phenomenally fucking empty. And there is literally no solution. I feel like with an illness this bad, there should be some available surgery to cure it. Maybe a lobotomy would work for the simple reason that it would rule out quite a lot of other brain activity to boot. What I wouldn't give to be oblivious.

Right now I would like to cease existing. I hate myself for every word I've ever said, every tear I've ever cried in front of my family, friends and boyfriends, every piece of junk food I've ever eaten. I want to undo everything about myself, my complete history. If I have to be miserable I would like to do it in the confines of a black hole where no one, not family or friend, can see me or hear me.

Wednesday, April 16, 2014

art on the go.

I became an iPhone Wanker a couple of months ago and I’m still pretty uneducated with regards to apps and faps and all the other technical mysteries Steve Jobs dreamt up after one of his frequent cheese binges. I’m up to date with the usual suspects: Facebook, Tumblr, Twitter (which I never use), Blogger, Snapchat (God help me), various shopping sites like Asos and Debenhams, Instagram and the collective picture editing apps that sort of go hand in hand with it. Other than that, it feels like a battery-powered lump I carry about in my coat pocket. Before I got my iPhone I imagined that after forking out a couple of hundred €€€ I’d become a member of an exclusive club where everyone was beautiful and wealthy and had four or five boyfriends at any given time. Needless to say, my life did not transform accordingly. I’m still me. Except now I find myself looking for a vacant plug socket several times a day in order to maintain my sick iPhone habit.

Since I joined the club, I’ve noticed just how ubiquitous the iPhone is. So how do you stand out from the crowd? Phone covers are all well and good but what about some bespoke and legitimate art? I discovered Poolga today, a site showcasing works of art made specifically for the iPhone, iPad and iPod Touch. The pictures are free to download and with over 600 artists featured on the site, you won’t be stuck for choice. Personally I prefer the retro/quirky pics but there are plenty of patterns to suit the design connoisseurs as well as lots of movie themed pictures for the regular pop culture fan. My current wallpaper is the above retro shot of the wrestling(!) couple but it took me a while to decide. I also hummed and hawed over the following:
For the hipsters among you, real life art for your real life mainstream phone. Don’t say I never do anythin’ for ya. :)